Three's a Crow'd
by Swim Until You Can't See Land
Summary: The Dalish distrust humans at best. At worst? They despise them. So in theory, a choice between the affections of Alistair and Zevran shouldn't be difficult for the new Grey Warden. Trouble is, the heart has a way of throwing theory out the window.
1. Prologue: Nightmares

**Disclaimer: None of the plot/game dialogue/characters belong to me - all created by the masterminds at Bioware. This is purely for non profit-making fun!**

**Summary: The Dalish distrust humans at best. At worst? They despise them. So, in theory, a choice between the affections of a human and an elf shouldn't be too hard for the newest Grey Warden. The trouble is, the heart has away of throwing theory out of the window. **

**Author's Note: So far I've played through all the origins apart from the Dwarven ones, and the one I liked the best was that of the Dalish Elf. It also seems to be rather under-represented on this site...most fics I've read seem to centre on City Elf/Human Noble/Mage. So at the least, I hope to bring something a bit different to the table! I've written a KOTOR novelisation before, but I felt it fell rather flat due to being too tightly bound to the game. With regards to this story, some important scenes and flashbacks (particularly in the beginning, so bear with me) will follow the game and its dialogue closely, but I've tried to branch out and make most of it as original as possible...I'm sure if you wanted a blow-by-blow account of the game you'd just play it yourselves! So read on, enjoy the Alistair/Zevran rivalry, and if you'd be so kind as to review, your comments and criticism will be much appreciated!**

* * *

_This was it; I had finally come face to face with the archdemon. I was transfixed at the sight of its heavy, scaled wings beating with a dangerous grace as it circled the dark sky above me. Its mottled hide was an array of inky green and purple, so shadowy it was almost black. Fearsome claws clinked in a flash of steel and its eyes held only death and evil. It was huge – bigger than anything I'd ever seen before, its power too mighty to comprehend. I could see the sinews and muscles beneath its leathery scales, indicative of its strength and agility. Though its mouth was closed, I could see sharp fangs protruding from its jaws, painted in red blood and adorned with scraps of flesh from its victims. I could sense the taint inside it – the taint that epitomised the being of all darkspawn and yet only seemed to truly emanate from this creature. It did not notice me at first, but then turned its head slowly to focus one glittering green eye on me. My stomach lurched and a petrifying sense of vulnerability fell over me. It saw me. I could not force my eyes away, even as it swung round in mid-air to sweep towards me, jaws open and roaring a terrifying sound. I could see smoke and embers in its nostrils and it took in a furious breath, ready to open its jaws and…bark?_

I opened my eyes to a dragon-free, starry sky. I felt the hard ground beneath me and struggled to sit upright, feeling the remaining adrenaline dissipate through my body. My heart was pounding in my chest and I'm sure my breathing was deeper than usual. On the outskirts of camp, I heard Jaeger give another couple of barks and I allowed myself to relax a little. The warmth of the camp fire was soothing, and I almost drifted off again while gazing into its flickering flames before a noise on the other side of it startled me.

'Nightmares?'

I jumped at the sound of the voice and was met with an apologetic look, before my fellow Grey Warden shuffled around the edge of the fire so as to talk without the flames separating us. Although I had discarded my armour for the night and was wearing only basic garments, Alistair was still clad in his sturdy chainmail. I supposed he would have never made a good templar had he not some extent of paranoia. I smiled to myself. I was not remotely religious, but it seemed that although Alistair had grown up in the Chantry, neither was he. I'd never have said it to him, but I very much doubted he'd have been a good templar. As a Grey Warden, on the other hand…

'I remember the first time I had one,' he continued, breaking into my thoughts. 'I think I screamed like a girl. Duncan must have wondered what was going on.' He grinned reassuringly.

I smiled back politely, unsure whether his little anecdote was fabricated just to make me feel better. 'It was…pretty bad.'

'Yes, I know.' His face fell, and his youthful features suddenly appeared sombre, as if he was years older than he really was. 'As time goes on, you can learn to block them out. Some of the older Grey Wardens even claim they can understand what the archdemon is saying.' He looked slightly nauseated by the thought. 'Still, that's part of our job – sensing the darkspawn. Trouble is, they can sense us, too. Bit of a double-edged sword.'

'Thanks, Alistair,' I replied, smiling with genuine gratitude. 'I appreciate it.'

He laughed, though it seemed a little forced. 'No problem, that's what I'm here for – to deliver unpleasant news and witty one liners. Anyhow – you're up now, right? Time to pull up camp and get a move on.'

My thoughts were troubled as we began packing up our weapons and armour, ready to venture back onto the road that would lead us to Redcliffe. I didn't know what to make of these folk who I had suddenly found myself with. Sten, the giant, silent Qunari, I could accept. But the others! To begin with, they were _human._ I shook my head, imagining the look on Tamlen's face if he knew I was keeping company with shemlans.

_The undergrowth was thick and green, and the light that fought its way through the dense foliage illuminated the forest in a yellow glow. Our footsteps made no sound, the soft velvet of our light boots padding along the forest floor as swiftly as the halla that roamed here. Our quarry, on the other hand, was loud and clumsy, trampling their way through bushes and verges in a desperate attempt to escape us. But we knew the forest better than them – it was our home. And like wolves, we cornered our prey._

'_D-don't hurt us,' the shemlans begged, as Tamlen and I stalked into the clearing, bows drawn together. Our hands held the arrows on the string, steady and unwavering, our eyes ready for the slightest movement. Tamlen questioned them, his eyes never leaving them, steadfast and unblinking. They told us about a cave, and begged for their freedom._

'_What do you say, lethallin?' Tamlen asked me in a mocking stage whisper. 'What shall we do with them?'_

_He was not intending to let them go. If he was, he would not have asked me. My voice was cold, dispassionate as I gave him his answer. 'Let them go? So they can return with a mob to drive us out? Kill them all.'_

_There was a twang from our bows and two of the humans dropped to the ground, Dalish arrows through their hearts. The third started to run, but Tamlen was swift and the shemlan had barely taken five steps when an arrow pierced his back, causing him to fall face down on the soft forest floor. Tamlen turned to me, his icy blue eyes smiling grimly. A soft smirk appeared on his lips, stretching the clan tattoos on his face._

'_Nice work.'_

I broke out of my reverie, feeling rattled. _These shemlans aren't the same_, I told myself. _It is no betrayal to be working with them._ I could not convince myself. The apostate, I could at least feel some kinship with. Distrusted by other humans, condemned by other mages, hunted by templars…she and I were not so different. But Morrigan, although brought up in the Wilds, was still human. Leliana – a servant of the Chantry, though where she learned to fight I had no idea. And Alistair. I sighed. Of course, Alistair. Every elvish instinct was screaming at me, telling me I should not trust him, should not like him. And yet like him I did. It was hard not to. There was something in his awkward, bumbling character that was surprisingly endearing. His warm brown eyes betrayed no arrogance or superiority – only kindness and a strange sort of innocence. It bothered me. It would be easier to hate him, so much easier…


	2. The Assassin

She's been sniping at him all day, and it's really getting on his nerves. She's actually getting worse than Morrigan; though Alistair can't believe he's even thinking such things. He knows it has something to do with what happened it camp the previous night, but he can't bring himself to drag it back up again now that they are on the road again. It was one thing arguing in private by their own little fire, but he knows that Morrigan will no doubt force her own opinions on him if he tries to talk about it now. Sten would stand in silence and Leliana, well, who knows what she would say? His mind drifts back to the camp, and he remembers the scowl on her face as she nursed the nasty wound on her arm that was given courtesy of a deranged Bann Teagan at Redcliffe.

* * *

_He knows by the look on her face that this isn't the best time to disturb her. But the longer he leaves it the angrier he will become, and he doesn't want that. She hisses in pain as she dabs her wound a little too roughly. Alistair winces and feels a fleeting pang of anger at Teagan, though he knows the man was not sound of mind. He sees her elfin ears twitch as he approaches her, knowing that she is aware of his presence. He takes a deep breath, willing for his voice to remain calm and steady. 'Now we're back at the camp, I'd like to talk about what happened back at Redcliffe.'_

_She does not look at him; her eyes stay focused on the deep gash in her arm. Her tone is indifferent when she answers, and this infuriates Alistair. 'You were there, you saw what happened.'_

_Alistair angrily lets out the breath he has been holding. Calmness be damned! He storms over to her, wrenching her uninjured arm around so that she is forced to look at him. 'You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself! With blood magic! How could you do that?'_

_Her voice is steady, and only a flash in her orange eyes betrays her anger as she turns away from him, dropping her gaze. 'I don't see the problem.'_

'_We could have gone to the Circle of Magi! We could have tried harder! We should have tried something that didn't involve blood magic, that's for sure! This is the arl's son we're talking about. What do you think he'll say when he wakes up?'_

'_I really don't care.'_

_Alistair snarls furiously. Damn this stubborn elf and her bloody prejudice! 'I just don't know how you could do it, how you could make that sort of decision. I owe the arl more than this.'_

_Her eyes snap back to him, gleaming with understanding. She lets out a knowing smirk, and he suddenly feels unsettled. 'Ah, so this about you and him, and not about me after all.'_

_He is not prepared for this, and mentally backpedals. 'No! Well maybe. I don't know.' He takes a breath, anger beginning to slip away. 'Well, at any rate, what's done is done. I suppose it will have to be enough.' He sighs wearily. 'Maybe I shouldn't be second-guessing you like this. It's easy to question, when you're not the one making the decisions.' _

'_Apology accepted.' Her words are spoken in a dull monotone._

_He realises his hand is still clutching her arm, and withdraws it as if it were at the jaws of a Mabari. His eyes flicker to her wound with sudden concern, and he realises that he does not feel angry with her at all anymore. 'Ah, why am I getting on your back about this? You did what you had to. It's just…all this death...Never mind. I'm just going to shut up before I do more than shove my foot in my mouth like an idiot.'_

_Later on she approaches him, wearing only her loose Dalish clothing. Alistair shakes his head in disapproval. She acts as if the camp is an indomitable fortress – he thinks she should know better, having grown up as a nomad in the forests. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders – a far cry from during the day when she scrapes it up into a scruffy knot, revealing her elvish ears. He wonders why he notices things like this, things like how her clan tattoos move on her face when she smiles or frowns, or how her amber eyes seem a brighter shade of orange in the light of the camp fire. She gives him his mother's amulet, found during their battle at Redcliffe castle. They sit in a contented silence for a while, uninterrupted in each other's company save from Jaeger's barks. _

_Finally, he speaks. 'Did you remember me mentioning it?' She is silent, but perhaps there is the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. Perhaps even the tinges of an embarrassed blush. He takes this as an admission. 'Wow. I'm more used to people not really listening when I go on about things.'_

_She lets out a laugh. Not her customary scathing smirk, but a genuine laugh. 'Sorry, did you say something?'_

_He can't help it – he laughs with her. 'Ho, ho, ho. See this gesture I'm making?' He flashes his fingers at her rudely. 'Can you hear that?_

_She smiles before walking away, but it seems to Alistair that it is a sad smile, and he wonders if her peace-offering is merely to paper over the cracks that are fast beginning to appear._

* * *

His thoughts are interrupted by a frantic scream, and he snaps back into the present to see a breathless traveller rushing towards them, her tousled hair a mess, her dirty cheeks stained with petrified tears. He watches as his fellow Grey Warden drops into a defensive stance, before relaxing when Leliana touches her arm reassuringly.

'Thank the Maker! Someone to help us! Please, you have to come – our wagon has been attacked…they've killed…' the woman's voice breaks off in sobs. 'This way!'

She begins to run away and Alistair is following her without waiting to see what the rest of the company will do. He does not like seeing the vulnerable and the defenceless being in danger – especially women. The rest of the party catch up with him in a gorge, with two steep banks on either side. In the middle is an overturned wagon, and the cattle that pulled it lie slaughtered. The woman stops, then wheels around to face them, a strange look in her eye. Alistair begins to feel uneasy, and takes a step back as an elf appears from behind the broken wagon. The elf makes a quick gesture with his hand and suddenly the company are surrounded by assassins – some with daggers, other with bows and arrows. Alistair hears a creaking behind him and gasps as the trunk of a tree lets out a groan and crashes down behind him. He looks frantic until he sees the small frame of the she-elf roll over on the ground and leap nimbly to her feet, eyes ablaze with outrage at the deception.

The elvin assassin glowers. 'The Grey Warden dies. Now!'

Alistair draws his sword and sees Sten do the same from the corner of his eye. The two of them lay into the nearest lackeys, so that all can be heard throughout the gorge was the sound of metal clanging. Morrigan is as quick off the mark, targeting the mage-assassin with a devastating freezing spell. Leliana and her elvin counterpart draw their bows together – one Orlesian, one Dalish. Soon the air is thick with flying arrows, the whirring and twanging of bolts and strings joining the medley of noise. But the head assassin is as quick as they are and springs lightly out their way, until his leg is caught in the vice-like grip of Mabari jaws. He lets out a scream of agony, kicking at Jaeger with his free leg.

The fight is over quickly, and the wounded assassin is taken alive and tied up, much to Alistair's annoyance. He studies the elf curiously, while waiting for the creature to wake up. He is tanned – much more so than any elves Alistair had ever seen before. Though it is hardly surprising, seeing as the Dalish live in the gloom of the forests and alienage elves do not have the luxury to bask in the sun. His green metal armour is light and supple, offering little protection. Alistair can see the bare skin of the assassin's legs and arms, and notices that although the elf is wiry and svelte, he is by no means a warrior, or powerfully built. His hair is yellow and flaxen, adorned by a few decorative braids.

When the assassin finally opens his eyes, Alistair notices that he focuses immediately on his fellow Grey Warden. Perhaps it is obvious to him that she is the leader – it seems to emanate from her in Alistair's mind, at any rate. Or perhaps it is merely because she is a fellow elf. 'I rather thought I would wake up dead, or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet.'

'That could easily be rectified.' Her face betrays no emotion, and Alistair is suddenly very grateful that he is on her side.

The assassin grins, a flash of white teeth amid his tanned features. 'Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled. If you haven't killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes? To ask me some questions?' When she doesn't answer, he ploughs on. 'Let me get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends.' He winks at her, and Alistair is not sure if he can believe his eyes. 'I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any remaining Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.'

His Dalish counterpart regards him carefully. 'Who hired you?'

'A rather taciturn fellow, from the capital. Loghain, I think his name was.'

She glances at Alistair, who returns the look with graveness on his face. This is bad. Bad enough for Loghain to send assassins after the Grey Wardens. Their task has just become a lot more difficult. He mulls things over in his mind, until a sharp laugh breaks into his thoughts.

'You must think I'm royally stupid.'

Zevran flashes her a dazzling smile. 'I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess.'

Alistair finds himself spluttering while the assassin lists off what he'd be useful for should they decide to let him live and join them in their quest to stop the blight. The nerve of that elf! Obviously the transition from killing to flirting is a simpler one than Alistair had ever thought! Here is an elf who, minutes after trying to take the life of another, is now charming her with his soft, foreign voice. Alistair glares at him, wishing that they could just get this façade over with and kill the assassin. There is no way she will trust him enough to let him live. Isn't there?

'I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer,' Zevran continues. 'Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?' Is it Alistair's imagination, or does the assassin's gaze flicker towards him?

'Is this before or after you stab me in the back?' she answers lightly, though Alistair cannot help but notice a flush of colour creeping up her neck.

Zevran cocks his head to the side, leering at her suggestively. 'Tsk. These things you say, they must drive the men back home simply _wild_!'

She considers him for a moment, and Alistair knows that the assassin's time has run out. 'Very well, I accept your offer.'

He jumps, spinning around to look at her like she has gone mad. 'What!? You're taking the assassin with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?' He means his words to appear scornful, but even to him it sounds like he is pleading.

She looks at him. 'You're here, aren't you? Collecting cast-offs is what I do.' Her voice is even but Alistair catches a familiar sarcastic gleam in her eye.

'Ow!' he snorts, feigning upset. 'Maybe true, but still…ow!' He sees the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips and rolls his eyes. 'Oh whatever, I'm sure you know best. Though if we weren't desperate before, this is a sure sign that we are now.'

Beside him, Morrigan weighs up the situation with her usual impassivity. 'A fine plan, but I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, were I you.'

Zevran grins tawdrily at the she-elf pulling him to his feet, and Alistair notices with something that feels like jealousy that his touch lingers a little longer than it needs to. 'That's excellent advice for anyone.'


	3. Tension in Camp

**Author's Note: Thanks very much to Kosiah, Lerolian and Ilinox for the reviews, they are very much appreciated! And also to those who have put the story in their alert list. Just to clarify a couple of things asked in reviews...I know I haven't given the FPC a name...I've tried to work my way around it and hope it doesn't detract from the story. It's just that I couldn't find a name that _fit_, and I rather wanted the character to be neutral. Also, I'm aware the story may seem quite fragmented - I'm going to be switching perspective and skipping over plot in favour of showing the relationship between the characters. It's more a series of snapshots showing tension and characterisation than a flowing, cohesive plot-line. Again, hope this does not detract from the story! Thanks for the comments regarding this - it's really helpful to know what people think, and such input can only help in making the writing better. Gives me something to think about in the future. So read on - enjoy the Alistair/Zevran rivalry as it builds up, and if you could find some time to review, it would be most appreciated.**

* * *

Zevran was causing problems. Not just with me, but with everybody else, too. Though I wished the problems I had with him were the same as those of everybody else – it would be a lot simpler, and a lot less dangerous. They thought he was lewd, irritating and troublesome – and they did not trust him one bit. I also thought he was lewd, irritating and troublesome, but for some incomprehensible reason, I began to believe his pledge of loyalty, and stopped watching him out of the corner of my eye.

That was a lie.

I did still watch him out of the corner of my eye, but it was not from some fear that he was trying to kill me. No, Zevran fascinated me. To be around an elf again after being in the midst of so many humans – well, it felt like I was home, and yet not so. His dark skin and the soft sibilants of his speech felt so exotic, so foreign to me, and I could not help but be intrigued by him. He knew this, knew exactly how to enthral me, how to captivate me with stories of Antiva and his deeds there. I would sit with him in the camp, even as the glow of the fire dimmed and faltered to its dying embers, listening to his quiet voice tell tales of princes and murder, maidens and blood. His eyes never once left my face, and I guessed that he enjoyed the power he had over me.

'And I was close to him, as close as we are now, or perhaps even closer,' he continued, eyes fixed on mine as he shifted his body towards me with a smirk. His face was almost touching mine, and I could feel his hot breath on my skin. 'Then, suddenly, my blade was at his throat and it was over.' I felt something cool and sharp under my chin, but I did not wrench my gaze from his; I did not even blink. His eyes betrayed nothing, and we sat in stillness as my heart began to pick up a furious pace. The blade was pressed hard against my throat, but it did not pierce my skin.

I heard a growling from behind me and Zevran's arm dropped as he warily studied the huge frame of Jaeger approaching. Something flashed in his eyes at the interruption – anger? Disappointment? I wasn't sure. I forced myself to laugh at the look on the elf's face and fondled Jaeger's ears. 'Careful, the Mabari are very protective.' I said the words light-heartedly, but if Zevran was as sharp as he claimed to be, he'd recognise the veiled warning.

His face gave nothing away as his eyes darted towards another approaching figure. 'They're not the only ones,' he replied with a smug smirk on his lips.

I felt a tug on my arm as I was hoisted upwards and away from Zevran. 'What in Andraste's name is going on here?' Alistair was glaring at the elf with a simmering mixture of distrust and resentment. He towered over Zevran, his tall, muscular frame dwarfing that of the assassin, but Zevran merely clucked, amused. 'I told you we couldn't trust him!' Alistair continued angrily. 'Didn't I tell you? But _no_ – you think it's a great idea to bring the assassin with us. I should have kept a closer eye on you, he could have -'

'Alistair, my good friend, calm down,' interjected Zevran, tutting his disapproval and opening his arms in appeasement. 'I was merely relating a story to your fellow Grey Warden. I admit, perhaps I got a little carried away, but she did not seem to mind.' He glanced at me, as if daring me to disagree.

'I need to talk to you,' muttered Alistair darkly, ushering me away from Zevran to the outskirts of the camp. I met his eyes, expecting to see anger and contempt, but there was only a glimmer of care and worry. He stood awkwardly with his hands at his sides, as if he did not know what to do with them. Then he let out a weary sigh and seemed to relax. 'I wanted to thank you, for earlier today.'

This caught me off guard. I thought I had become better at understanding humans and their body language. Apparently this was not the case. 'What? I thought you were going to tell me how stupid I was for letting my guard down around Zevran.'

He frowns. 'Well, I was, but then I decided that you probably knew that already, and weren't going to listen to anything I said anyway, so I thought I should thank you instead. For being there for me. It…it meant a lot. I mean, with Duncan gone and with what happened earlier, well, I'm glad you're here with me. With us, I mean. I…I just wanted to thank you.'

'Is this about Goldana?' I asked softly.

He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

* * *

_She was older than Alistair, and I wasn't expecting that. He had never mentioned whether his long-lost sister was older or younger than him, but because of his determination to warn her of the darkspawn, to protect her, I had assumed it was the latter. But she was definitely older than him – even though her looks were no doubt made more haggard through her poverty, her face held none of Alistair's youth or exuberance. In fact, they looked nothing alike at all. Her face was stony and weathered, and I was sure the scowl that was on it had not left in quite some years. The bitterness on her face seemed to run deeper than her skin, and my suspicions were confirmed as the conversation took a turn for the worse._

'_You killed mother, you did, and I've had to scrape by all this time! That coin they gave me didn't last long, and when I went back they ran me off!'_

_I hissed in disbelief. 'That's hardly Alistair's fault, is it?' My fingers tightened around my bow until my knuckles were white. I couldn't believe the audacity of this woman. _

_Her eyes narrowed as she looked from Alistair to me. 'And who in the Maker's name are you? Some tart, after his riches, I expect?'_

_I snarled in outrage and my hand flew towards the quiver of arrows on my back. Alistair was surprisingly quick though, and caught my hand in mid-air before glaring at his sister. 'Hey! Don't speak to her that way! She's a friend and a Grey Warden, just like me!'_

'_Oh, I see! A prince and a Grey Warden too! Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me?' Her voice caught and through the bitterness I sensed genuine dejection in her voice – for a moment I almost felt sorry for her._

_Alistair seemed to realise that he was still holding my hand, and let go as he took a step towards his sister. 'Let me promise you this, Goldana: I'll do whatever I can to ensure you and your children are taken care of. You have my word, but I can't give you more than that.' Alistair turned to me. 'I…let's go. I want to go.' I turned and walked out of the small abode without a look back. He paused behind me at the doorway, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with pain and disappointment. 'Goodbye, sister.'_

* * *

'I meant what I said back in Denerim,' I told him fiercely. 'Family is more than blood. I know that better than anyone. Back with the clan I had…there was…' I couldn't bring myself to speak of Tamlen. I wanted to – if there was anyone I could speak to about what happened it would be Alistair – but my voice suddenly choked and the words would not come forth. I dropped my gaze, suddenly finding my light Dalish boots a much better sight than his pity-laden eyes.

Suddenly he was close to me, cupping his hand softly under my chin and drawing my face towards his. He brushed my hair from my face in stood silently, just looking into my eyes. 'I know you meant it. And that's why I wanted to thank you. For you to say that you consider me as your family now…well consider the Grey Wardens…but since we're the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden…what I'm trying to say is, thank you.'

'You shemlans. You're so cute when you're awkward,' I said, smiling. Then I clapped a hand to my mouth and horror and groaned inwardly. I had _not_ just said that.

He chuckled. '"Cute." Just what every guy wants to hear.' He looked down at me, smiling with such warmth that I felt the world around me melt away, so that it was just him and I standing alone. 'Though coming from _you_ it's not such a bad thing. Not at all.'

We walked back to the main campfire together. Leliana was heading into her tent, and there was no sign of Morrigan or Sten anywhere. On the other side of the flames I could make out the lithe figure of Zevran next to the great hulking frame of Jaeger. I wasn't worried for my war hound. He could smell deception a mile off. Unless, of course, he was distracted by a particularly tender joint of meat, much like the one the elf was waving at him just now.

'I noticed some dog drool in my pack this morning,' remarked the assassin, holding the juicy bone just out of the reach of the Mabari. Jaeger snapped, but Zevran's reflexes were sharp, and he whipped his arm out of the way. '_Not _that I like to make accusations. And I even appreciate the artistry behind a good burgle when I see it, to tell the truth. But leaving all that drool as evidence? Sloppy.'

Jaeger barked happily, taking another swipe at the meat.

'I'll take that as an apology, shall I?' The dog bounded around him happily, until Zevran finally relented and gave him the bone. 'I'm so glad you're pleased. It really is quite something to find such enthusiasm in one's companions.'

Jaeger's answer was a delighted bark.

The elf snorted scornfully. 'I agree. Go, team. Hurrah!' He looked up at our arrival, but if he was surprised at the renewed closeness between Alistair and I, he did not show it. Instead, he gave a theatrical yawn, stretching his arms and legs out to their fullest. I tried not to look, but couldn't help noticing the tension in his muscles as he strained them and then relaxed. He was slight, compared to Alistair, but it was no difficulty to see his sinewy strength ripple under his tanned skin. His eyes glinted in the flames, and beside me, I heard Alistair grind his teeth.

'I think I'm going to turn in,' muttered the templar under his breath.

'I too, shall now retire,' added Zevran. He looked at me and grinned. 'Unless, of course, the beautiful Grey Warden wishes to hear more stories of Antiva? My tent is rather roomy and I think it would lend itself wonderfully to the acoustics of –'

'No more stories tonight, Zevran,' I replied hurriedly, feeling Alistair stiffen beside me. After getting back on good terms with my fellow Grey Warden, I didn't want to endanger it by proving to be reckless and unguarded.

The elf's eyes hardened and seemed to shoot Alistair a dark look. But perhaps I imagined it, for when he spoke, his tone was as affable as ever. 'As you wish. Another time, perhaps.'


	4. Alistair

**Author's Note: Thanks muchly for the reviews that have been coming in - just makes me more enthusiastic and makes me want to write more so many thanks! This will be the last chapter until after the weekend, very busy with uni work just now! Hopefully this chapter will give you an insight into Alistair's thoughts in an unusual and interesting way. The 2nd person narrative can be very jarring, and a bit unsettling to read, so this chapter may not be to everybody's tastes. Don't worry, however, I'm not going to make a habit of it - there will be a similar one from Zevran later on but that's all I'll be writing in the 2nd person. Just though I'd experiment...mix things up a bit. Hope you're all still enjoying the story!**

* * *

This is how it feels to be Alistair.

You rationalise everything. You rationalise because it's the only way you can clear your head and cope with what is in front of you. You rationalise because if you don't, you fear you will go crazy.

So when you watch her present Zevran with a battered old pair of Antivan leather boots, you tell yourself it's merely because she can relate to being far away from home, from family, and wants to comfort her fellow elf. You know what she is thinking when she has that far-away look in her orange eyes; you know that she is thinking of the forest and her clan, wondering where they are now, and if she will ever see them again. You know all about Tamlen, even though she has never had the strength to speak about him to you. You know because you hear her call his name in her sleep, and you wish you could comfort her and make the pain go away. You want to tell her that you've lost somebody, too. You find yourself wondering what this Tamlen looks – looked – like. You try to form a picture in your head but for some reason all you can see is Zevran. The joy on the assassin's face that he quickly tries to mask as indifference when he receives the boots. The lingering touch as she passes them on to him. You tell yourself that they are two elves in the midst of humans – they are bound to feel some camaraderie.

You travel to a small village called Honnleath and find yourself standing in the shade of a giant boulder, which seems to have some sort of crystal formation growing on it. You are shoulder to shoulder with Zevran and Leliana in the small grassy paddock, having left Morrigan, Sten and Jaeger keeping a watch out in the village for more darkspawn. The control rod works this time, and you have an insatiable urge to pull the Dalish elf in front of you out of the way of the groaning rock that she is approaching. But she isn't afraid. Maker's breath – she's never afraid, and you hate her for it. You hate that she doesn't take more care of her own life, that she places it idly in the hands of people like Zevran. You hate that she is chatting away to this giant rock without a care in the world, as if it were a normal thing to do.

'Give Zevran a hug,' you hear her say, a smile in her voice. You feel you should be somewhat grateful for this, at least. She could have asked the golem to pick _you_ up. And being crushed to dust by a fist of rock is not something that is high up on your things-to-do list.

Zevran seems just as dubious, and you cannot help but smirk to yourself. 'Now, now. I don't care much for foreign objects invading my personal space.' Then he turns and smiles at her. 'Well…usually.'

You try to control your irritation with the loutish elf, but it is hard. You tell yourself that it is not jealousy you are feeling – no, that would be irrational. It is protectiveness, nothing more. Protectiveness and frustration, the frustration that she lets her guard down with him when he has given her no reason to trust her. You feel bitter, because you had to work to earn her trust. You stood by her through the joining, through Ostagar, through Redcliffe, and after you've saved somebody's life so many times, and had yours saved back, it is hard not to trust that someone. Perhaps it is because they are both elves, you reason. Perhaps elves trust each other unconditionally. You scowl to yourself because even with your rationalisation, this is a stretch.

'How do I know I can trust you then?'

Your stewing is interrupted by a rocky voice, which sounds almost exasperated. 'I do not know. How does it trust anyone else, without a control rod?'

You see something change in her face at the golem's words, and for a fleeting second you dare to hope that something has hit home, that she has realised how naïve and reckless she is being. You want to shout '_exactly!'_ and point at Zevran and reiterate the hundred reasons why she should not trust the Antivan. Then you see her face smooth over as she composes herself, and you realise that your hopes are dashed.

'That's a good point,' she concedes, and welcomes the golem, Shale, to travel with you.

Zevran seems as pleased about it as you are, and you suppose you should find some comfort in that, but you can't. Everybody seems to be in a lighter mood – Leliana is already suggesting that Shale invest in some sandals, and the golem has taken to calling Morrigan a 'swamp-witch.' You know you should find this hilarious, and that the rest of the company will be wondering why you are not taking the opportunity to snipe at Morrigan some more, but your heart is not in it. Even Shale's explanation of his bird-hate and the fact that he squashes a chicken under his colossal foot cannot bring a smile to your face.

* * *

Back at camp, she corners you. You should be flattered that she has noticed your bad mood, and has come to seek you out, but somehow this disturbance only serves to irritate you more. You try to keep your eyes on her face, but you realise that they keep drifting lower; to her midriff, exposed by the light Dalish armour she is wearing. You keep telling her to get something stronger, more durable, but she refuses, saying that she is only comfortable in the attire of her clan. It infuriates you, like so many other things about her infuriate you. You want to shout at her but somehow what comes out isn't what you planned.

'Do you know what this is?' You give her the rose.

She raises an eyebrow. 'Is that a trick question?'

You already feel foolish so you resort to sarcasm. 'Yes, absolutely. I'm trying to trick you. Is it working? Ah, I almost had you, didn't I?' Then you sigh, knowing that you don't want to start bickering. 'No. It's a rose.'

'Yes, I can see that,' she answers, smiling. 'When are you going to give it to her?'

'What?' You are caught off-guard. 'Who?'

'Morrigan,' she replies with a sly grin. 'I've seen the way you look at her.'

You roll your eyes. 'Your glibness does you no credit.' Then you pause – you're sure you've heard those words before. Except they were directed at you. You want to laugh – have you rubbed off on her that much in this short time? When you first met, she was as serious as the grave, and yet here she is, giving you a run for your money in terms of sarcasm and dry humour. 'I picked it in Lothering,' you continue slowly, unsure of how to use the words that you've been hoarding for so long. Eventually you are able to mumble incoherently something about beauty in a place of darkness and how the rose reminded you of her. You feel colour rising to your cheeks before she has time to reply, cursing yourself for being such an awkward, bumbling fool. But you have to ask. Even if it means rejection – you have to ask if she feels the same way.

'I-I don't know,' she mumbles softly, looking away from you. But she cannot hide the blush creeping up her neck to the tips of her elvin ears. 'It's too soon to say.'

'Well,' you reply, and in that split second you make a decision, though you do not know what has come over you. 'Is it too soon for this?'

One hand is on her back of her head, fingers lost in her hair. The other is around her waist, pulling her towards you and suddenly you are kissing her, and you don't know how it's meant to feel but this feels pretty amazing. Her lips are soft and she tastes earthy, like wood and leaves and morning dew. She is gentle and tentative, and although you don't want to scare her away you cannot help yourself. Your hand tightens in her hair and you push deeper, kissing her fiercely and hoping it will never end.

This is how it feels to be Alistair.


	5. Hunting

**Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for their kind reviews, got a great response for that last chapter so will be looking forward to seeing the Zevran one go up later in the story. Part of the reason I am switching perspective and narrative voice is to give a well-rounded, fulfilling account of the events as they happen, and I'm glad to see people are enjoying that. Another point of clarification as I think I might have confused some people - in my summary I had written Alistair/PC/Zevran, and while I was trying to convey a love triangle, I've since been told that that means a threesome! (I should have put Alistair/PC, Zevran/ PC) So apologies to anybody who I have misled - hope you are all still enjoying the story as it is, and the summary has now been amended. Thanks!**

* * *

It was early, close to the break of dawn. The inky darkness of the sky was beginning to fade, with streaks of light swirling through. All was quiet, and I stole away from the camp before anybody else had awakened. I padded through the short grass into the adjacent forest, my light boots making no sound, my footsteps leaving each blade of grass untrampled. It was somewhat of a comfort to run free, unhindered and unwatched apart from the creatures of the forest. A stream gurgled by, and I leapt easily over it, stone by stone, sure and nimble on my sprightly feet. This was where I felt at home, under the emerald canopy of the forest with only my bow and wits for company. My ears pricked at the slightest sound, and I felt more at ease than I had in weeks.

I came across a small herd of wild deer and began tracking them, moving silently in the shadows of the undergrowth. With a twinge of pain I realised that I had not hunted since that fateful day with Tamlen – I had left that job to Leliana, and sometimes Morrigan would partake, if it took her fancy that day. The witch of the wilds was used to catching her own food, and Leliana was accomplished with a bow and arrow – for a human, at any rate. I had not wanted to venture into the forests for fears that the memory of Tamlen would be too painful to endure. But my green surroundings were strangely comfortable, as if he were stalking there with me.

The deer were almost in clear view now, and hidden behind a tree, I placed an arrow onto my bow, ready to step out from the cover and take aim. I'd strike the arrow into the neck of the animal, killing it instantly and leaving the main of its carcass unspoiled. Taking a sidestep into the clearing, I took aim at my target, keeping both eyes open, like a good hunter should. The deer looked up, its eyes flashing at the sudden movement, but it was too late. Already my fingers were releasing the arrow and –

'You really shouldn't be out here alone, you know.'

I jumped and the arrow flew miserably off-target, frightening the deer and causing them to scarper. I hissed in annoyance and turned around to see the cocky figure of Zevran standing behind me, arms folded and smiling in a bout of arrogance. I wondered how I had not heard him sneak up behind me, cursing myself for my lack of alertness. The annoyance must have been exuding from me, for he let out a hearty laugh.

'You missed.'

'You distracted me!' I snarled in outrage.

'Ah, yes. I can be very distracting, or so I have been told,' he sighed, grinning. 'Part of my charm. So, tell me, what _are_ you doing out here all alone?'

'Hunting,' I replied gruffly.

'Not very well, so I see.' He noticed my lip curled back in an angry growl and laughed. 'Not in the mood for jokes either, it seems.'

'Maybe just not _your_ jokes, Zevran.'

'Ah.' Suddenly his eyes gleamed and his voice became frosty. 'Perhaps you are growing more accustomed to the sarcasm of Alistair. They _do_ say it is the lowest form of wit, you know.'

My stomach lurched at the mention of his name but I merely shook my head. 'It has nothing to do with Alistair, rather the fact that you ruined my hunt and disturbed my solitude.'

'It is solitude you seek? Truly?' asked Zevran, moving closer to me. I shifted uncomfortably but did not back away, for reasons of which I could not quite fathom. My hand was clenched tightly around my bow and he placed his fingers on mine, gently prying them away from the ironbark. His touch was warm and surprisingly gentle, leaving my fingertips tingling in his wake. 'You should be more careful,' he murmured. 'A bow will not protect you from everything.'

There was something strange in the tone of his voice, and I was not sure whether his words were a taunting warning or genuine concern. I tried to make light of it. 'Swords and daggers are no use to enemies who are felled before they can get near me.'

'Yet arrows may run out. And what then? When you have a blade at your neck and no way to defend yourself?' His fingers drifted lightly over my throat, and I was suddenly reminded of the night at the campfire, with his dagger at my neck and his whispers in my ear. I became aware that I was very vulnerable, alone with him in the forest, and I felt myself tremble. He seemed to notice, for he ran his fingertips over me again, from my collarbone to my chin. His eyes were fixated on my neck, alight with some fervour.

I cleared my throat. 'And what would you have me do?'

My voice seemed to snap him out of his reverie. The anticipatory look in his eyes had dissipated, and was replaced with acquiescence. 'As accomplished as you are with a bow and arrow, your melee skills are…lacking…to say the least. Perhaps you would permit me to teach you some swordplay?'

I laughed. 'We elves are shorter and weaker than both humans and darkspawn. I do not think I would fare well in a match of strength.'

His eyes glinted. 'This is true, and that is why I am what I am. There are…techniques I can show you, movements and angles to fell a target much larger and stronger than yourself. It would please me greatly to see you more capable of defending yourself in close combat.'

His tone was sincere, and I decided to take him up on his offer. 'Very well, let's get back to camp then.'

For a second, a dark look passed over his face, and then it was gone again, so quickly that I thought I must have imagined it. 'As you wish.'

* * *

Back at camp, the others were just beginning to rise. Alistair had not yet appeared from his tent, and for that, I was grateful. I did not want him to think I had gone off alone, unprotected. Neither did I want him to think I had gone hunting with Zevran. I frowned to myself, trying to decide what would be worse. I was lost in my thoughts as a dagger came flying through the air, and I barely managed to skip out of its path as it landed at my feet, closely followed by another.

Zevran tutted disapprovingly. '_Concentrate,_ my dear.'

We began to spar, Zevran correcting my positioning and stance, instructing me how to move and what parts of the body to aim for. Sten came to watch, and his usually impassive face seemed almost interested. Leliana looked on enthusiastically, prompting me whenever Zevran fell quiet. I was soon sweating, though the morning was still cool. Zevran seemed to possess a hidden power, and his relentless flurries and ripostes made me weary as I attempted to dodge him again and again. I was sure on my feet, and the movement part came easily to me. But after a time the twin daggers grew heavy in my hands and my attempts at blocking and stabbing became lethargic and sloppy.

The sound of metal clanging had evidently awoken Alistair, for I noticed him appear from his tent with a sour expression on his face. I sneaked a look at him from the corner of my eye and Zevran took advantage of my distraction to wheel behind me, placing one dagger at my lower back and the other at my throat.

His lips were at my ear, and he murmured so quietly that only I could hear. 'Tsk. And your Grey Warden gets you killed.' His warm breath against my ear sent shivers down my neck, and I felt his lips smile against my skin. He released me from his hold, pushing me towards Alistair before speaking out loud. 'What did I say about distractions? They can my very deadly, my dear.'

Alistair scowled and set about packing up camp, ready for another day on the road as we headed for the Mages' Tower. While everybody was busy, I made my way over to the assassin, as a sudden thought came over me. 'Zevran, what were _you_ doing in the forest this morning?'

He looked at me and smiled a smile that was not unfamiliar to me. It was one I had seen many times before. On the face of a hungry wolf upon catching scent of an injured halla. On the face of a human, presented with power and riches. On the face of a Dalish elf, when humans strayed into his territory.

'Hunting.'


	6. Observations

Wynne may be old, but she is not yet blind, and there is much she notices about the odd little party that comes bursting into the Circle Tower.

The young elf is the leader. A reluctant one, perhaps, but a leader nonetheless. Wynne remembers her briefly from Ostagar, and is glad to know that at least some Grey Wardens survived the massacre. She is Dalish, Wynne presumes, noticing the patterned tattoos on her forehead, around her eyes. Growing up in the forest has evidently served to sharpen the senses and reflexes of the girl. Her eyes sweep around the room in an instant, taking in everything, and already her bow is drawn as she stalks by her companions, defensive and ready. Wynne is somewhat impressed by the way she can see the elf's mind whirring, tactics and strategies no doubt formulating in haste. Her amber eyes are the essence of awareness, flicking back and forth from Wynne to the others in the room, trying to determine the danger, if any, they are in. This is an elf who has seen much battle – that much is evident. But there is something else behind her eyes too; a great burden – a pain that has not yet been fully acknowledged. Wynne regards her with interest – what a curious creature!

The woman at her shoulder is a mage. An apostate, unless Wynne is very much mistaken. Wynne knows this without even looking at the black staff she is carrying. A raven-haired beauty, with porcelain skin and yellow eyes that see all and reveal nothing. Clad in what is little more than a plum, velvet scarf, adorned with trinkets and jewellery, Wynne can see her deadly beauty. But Wynne knows that beauty is only skin-deep, and purses her lips. There are many things that lie under the surface of this one – scheming, manipulation – but Wynne has the feeling that she is only seeing what the other mage is allowing her to see. There is much more to this apostate than meets the eye, and this unsettles her. She meets Wynne's eye in a burning glare before turning to the smaller female at her shoulder.

'You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress? To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages?' She does not make any attempt to cloak her disdain and contempt, and begins to pace around the room, each step saturated in scathing derision. 'They allow themselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. Now their masters have chosen death for them and I say let them have it.' She turns to look at Wynne, her yellow eyes challenging. But the elder mage remains silent, knowing that it is not the apostate who will make the decision.

'Why do you treat the Circle with such scorn, Morrigan?' asks the young Grey Warden curiously. Of course, Wynne realises, the Dalish elf would not have had much dealing with the Circle of Magi from the depths of the forests.

Morrigan's eyes gleam triumphantly, seizing an opportunity to manipulate. 'Look at how they live – servants of the Chantry. They lack respect for themselves and their own power. Why should I respect them?'

The elf looks from Morrigan back to Wynne, and the older mage can almost see the thoughts rushing through her mind. Struggling between doing what she knows is right as a Grey Warden, and her very nature as a Dalish elf. Wynne has heard about Dalish prejudice against their alienage cousins – how some even go as far to call their counterparts _flat-ears_ – the ultimate insult. Contempt and scorn are bred from the disbelief that some elves lack the respect to fight for their freedom, suffering in cramped alienages rather than roaming the wilds in clans. Wynne imagines that Morrigan's hinted, subtle comparison has hit home, and grips her staff, ready to fight if need be.

'Now hang on a minute,' the other, male Grey Warden interrupts angrily. 'Just think about this for a second!' Wynne remembers him from Ostagar, too. Alistair, his name is. A former templar, in fact. She is silently amused at the irony of her archetypical enemy coming to her defence. He begins to berate the leader and Morrigan, and Wynne can hear the justice and benevolence behind every word he utters. His dislike for the apostate is more than obvious, but the way in which he speaks to his fellow Grey Warden is different. Though his words are chastising and heated, his voice is laced in warmth and affection, so that what seems to be an angry lecture transforms into a caring reminder of what is right. Wynne smiles to herself as she sees the Dalish's resolve crumple under his words, her eyes glimmering with understanding and acceptance.

Morrigan is irate, and scoffs bitterly. 'Have it your way.'

It is not until some time after that Wynne realises that she did not notice the fourth companion, and this worries her more than anything. It was as if the Antivan elf had managed to cloak himself out of sight, becoming one with the shadows and being ready to spring from then if the situation had called for it. Wynne is not usually so easily deceived, and she begins to feel suspicious of this arrogant, tanned elf. She does not mistake the hungry glances he shoots at the leader every so often, but she cannot place what is behind his eyes. Sometimes it seems to her to be pure lust, a sort of temptation. But other times he looks at her with such dark desire that Wynne is not sure what he is thinking about at all. She is not used to finding people so hard to read – this one is trickier than Morrigan, and that in itself is no mean feat. She purses her lips, resolving not to let the slippery Antivan out of her sight.

* * *

'What have you done to him?' Wynne gasps at the sight of First Enchanter Irving kneeling on the floor, weak and weary. Uldred stands over him, laughing in a manic derision.

'Stop him…' manages the First Enchanter. 'He is building an army. He will…destroy the templars…and…'

Uldred spins round in annoyance, but calms himself immediately, smiling at Irving menacingly. 'You're a sly little fox, telling on me like that. And here I thought he was starting to turn.' He shakes his head and Wynne feels herself tightening her grip on her staff, outraged that this maleficarum could reduce the First Enchanter to such a state.

'N-Never!' spits Irving in defiance, and Wynne feels a sudden rush of pride.

Uldred shakes his head. 'That's enough out of you, Irving. You will serve me eventually.' He turns to the Grey Warden leader. 'As will you.'

A chuckle comes from behind them, and Wynne turns round to see the Antivan, Zevran, smirking amusedly. She half-heartedly agrees with the sentiment. This Dalish elf will die before she serves under anyone, least of all a human. Wynne raises her staff as the elf reaches for an arrow, followed quickly by movements from Morrigan and Alistair.

Uldred scowls. 'Fight, if you must. It will just make my victory all the sweeter.'

They fight, of course, and they win, too. But during the course of it Wynne cannot help noticing that the attentions of Alistair do not lie solely on their enemies. The elvish Grey Warden provides ranged support like she and Morrigan, leaving the two men to fight at close range. But every time an abomination creeps too close, the templar almost falls over himself in the race to come to her aid. Of course, in doing so, he leaves Zevran unsupported and so _she_ goes to _his_ aid, leaving Alistair somewhat disgruntled. It seems to Wynne that the assassin is leading them in a merry dance – fast-paced and dangerous. She watches him wipe blood from his tanned brow after the battle, looking for some sign, some indication of his intentions. But his face is a perfect mask of impassivity.

* * *

Wynne is pleased when the Grey Wardens grant her request to travel with them and aid them in their fight against the darkspawn. She was never one to merely sit and watch events as they unfold, and that isn't going to change now, no matter how old she is. She still has a good few years of fight left in her, yet. Morrigan's face is one of disbelief and revulsion when she realises who her new travelling companion his going to be, and Wynne notices as she shoots her leader a disapproving, yet not altogether unfriendly look. The Dalish elf gives a slight smirk, and motions for the rest of the party to pack up and be on their way. Orzammar awaits them, and Wynne is glad to be a part of the company – resident healer and giver of advice. And watching. Always watching.


	7. Transcending

**Author's Note: Hi everyone, sorry it's taken so long to update...I've got to admit I've been a bit sidetracked with all the Mass Effect 2 info that's been coming out over the past week. I originally just bought 'Dragon Age' to tide me over until ME2 came out, but as soon as I started playing it, I got hooked. So here is the next chapter, and I'm sure all you Mass Effect fans out there will understand my delay!**

* * *

Alistair likes Wynne. She's nice and grandmotherly and is always keeping an eye on Zevran. The 'painted elf,' as Shale likes to call him, bombards the elder mage with hyperbolic flattery, but she is not as easily taken in as some. She's a smart woman, with plenty of fight left in her despite her age, and even if she didn't describe the assassin as 'an irritating, uncouth nuisance,' Alistair would still like her the best out of the company. Well, perhaps second best. He still hasn't forgotten the kiss, even though more than a week has passed and they've done little more than smile awkwardly at each other. He wonders if she regrets it, if he made his feelings known too soon. Then he remembers her urgent tongue up against his, the clawing of her hands on the back of his neck as he pulled her against him. He smiles at the memory and Morrigan notices.

'You have a strange look upon your face, Alistair,' she remarks, her yellow eyes narrowed in search of some clue. Alistair thinks she looks rather like a hawk when she screws up her face so, but he does not say it. She was bad enough when he told her she had her mother's nose.

'I was merely thinking, that's all,' he replies innocently, the smile never leaving his lips.

'Oh?' Her eyes suddenly go from being narrow to wide in mock-surprise, and her ever-changing expressions are making Alistair dizzy. 'So 'twas a thought that was passing through your mind? No wonder you look so strange; 'tis no doubt an unusual experience for you. I hope you do not feel unwell.'

Alistair finds himself hoping that Morrigan will feel unwell. Violently unwell. But even the 'swamp-witch' cannot dampen his spirits today. Not even the news that an alcoholic dwarf is to be joining their party can dampen his spirits today. For as they prepare to trek into the deep roads under Orzammar, Zevran is nowhere to be seen. It is merely he, Wynne, Morrigan, their fearless leader and now, an alcoholic dwarf by the name of Oghren. No Antivan assassin for him to worry about, for once. He smiles at the memory of earlier that morning.

* * *

_The Grey Warden is away hunting with Leliana, and although Alistair is glad that she is re-embracing her old way of life, he is beginning to get concerned. They have been away for quite some time, and it's making him restless. He notices that he is not the only one – that Zevran is pacing impatiently around the camp. His eyes then drift to the giant golem – Shale. The epitome of patience. Alistair supposes that after thirty years of standing doing nothing, an extra half an hour here or there makes little difference. Shale appears to be watching the elf with interest, if such an expression can be read in stone. _

'_I am curious. Will the painted elf answer a question?'_

_Alistair watches as Zevran gives a sigh of resignation and sits down. 'Why not? I appear to have all day.'_

_Shale lumbers over, and Alistair swears he can feel the ground move beneath him each time the golem drops a giant rocky foot down. 'The painted elf attacked the Grey Warden, and yet it still lives. Had the decision been mine, its skull would be so much pulp right now.'_

_Alistair agrees, but says nothing, only letting a grim smile play across his lips. He sees Zevran clench his jaw, but when the elf replies, his voice is perfectly measured. 'Oh, I don't know. Could you destroy something as pretty as I am, hmm?'_

'_Easily. I fail to see how any measure of attractiveness would make one difficult to crush.' _

_Zevran grins. 'Perhaps you do not know how to look, then.' _

_Alistair is sorely tempted to wipe the smirk from the elf's face, but he bites his tongue. He does not know what kind of relationship, if any, he has with his fellow Grey Warden, and something tells him that she'd be none too happy if she came back to the camp amongst rumours of something that wasn't even real. But the kiss…_

_Shale grunts. 'Perhaps there are definitions of "blind" I have yet to understand.'_

_Zevran laughs in reply, shaking his head pityingly. 'One would have to be blind not to realise how very pretty we all are and how important that is to preserve. Take a long look at our Grey Warden, my good friend. Right there we have an object worthy of worship, no?' His eyes dart over to Alistair, intent on provoking some reaction from the silent templar._

_Alistair knows this, but cannot keep his mouth shut. 'Maybe so, but I doubt she is interested in _your_ worship.' He cannot help but smile smugly._

'_Ah, and you think she is interested in yours?' Zevran clucks and shakes his head patronisingly. _

_Alistair turns to the golem. 'Shale…you've observed people a lot over the years…tell me, do they usually kiss those whom they are not interested in? Hypothetically speaking, of course.' His question is asked innocently, but he is sure to shoot a taunting glance at Zevran before awaiting the golem's reply._

'_Kissing? Is that the disgusting act where two people press their unbearably squishy lips together? Ugh, the thought alone is making me sick. I'm going to go now, and leave it and the painted elf to their conversation before I am forced to crush their heads.'_

_The golem trudges off, leaving Alistair and Zevran staring at each other, one with a smug smile, the other's expression indecipherable. _

* * *

Of course, at that moment, the hunting party had returned and there was no time for any exchange, whether it be words or blows. But Zevran had opted to stay behind, claiming that the tunnels of Orzammar would make him claustrophobic. Alistair laughs to himself, unable to believe that the rest of the company had not seen through his flimsy excuse. Though it was true that none of them had known about their conversation. Still, the end result is that the elf is not present to annoy him, and for that, Alistair is pleased.

* * *

When it comes down to it, Oghren tries to stay out of Branka's way, preferring instead to hack his way through her colossal stone golems. And Alistair can understand why, he really can. He knows that some part of the dwarf must fear being the one to deal the killing blow – after all, he still loves her, even if she has gone completely and utterly insane. But what Alistair can't handle is how this leaves his favourite Grey Warden to do the dirty work. After being hit by a fair amount of arrows, Branka sees the Dalish elf across the cavern and charges towards her in a rage. He is trapped on the other side of a golem, unable to get by and aid her. He watches helplessly as the enraged dwarf gets too close to be felled by arrows, and swings her axe at the Grey Warden.

Thank the Maker for elvin reflexes. One second she is in the path of the axe, the next she is circling Branka, the steel of two daggers glinting in the dull light of the cave. The dwarf heaves and charges again and again, but her elvin counterpart is too light and nimble on her feet to be caught under the axe blade. Attack follows counter-attack until they are moving too quickly for Alistair to follow – it is like a dance, a deadly dance. Suddenly the golem in front of him shatters into hundreds of pieces of broken rock courtesy of a cone of cold from Morrigan. In the same instant he hears a scream and searches frantically for any sight of the other battle. He closes his eyes and utters a silent thank you to Zevran, for the Dalish Grey Warden has crept around to the back of Branka and slit her throat. Alistair rushes over to her, and all he wants to do is hold her and make sure everything is all right, for she is covered in blood, and not all of the blood belongs to Branka. He holds her as she drifts in and out of consciousness, and to all those present, it is obvious that the relationship between the two Grey Wardens has transcended past mere friendship.

* * *

She is writhing in agony as he and Zevran hold her down while Wynne applies another poultice to the gash on her stomach. Steam rises from the liquid and she lets out a hiss of pain and squeezes his arm so tightly that Alistair feels that he must be in at least an equal amount of pain, if not more. She tries to sit up, to squirm away but after her first attempt, he and Zevran are prepared, strengthening their hold on her arms. He notices that Zevran, although restraining her, is also stroking the inside of her arm with his thumb, and this annoys Alistair. His only consolation is that the elf's touch seems to be giving the injured Grey Warden no comfort as she grunts in pain.

'Why can't you just use a healing spell?' she asks for the hundredth time.

'There's only so much I can do with magic!' snaps Wynne, exasperated with her patient. 'The wound needs to be cleaned and healed so there is no infection. Perhaps you should listen to Alistair's advice in the future and invest in a more suitable set of armour!'

'Not a good time, Wynne,' the templar interrupts apologetically, as his fellow Grey Warden thrashes in anger beneath him.

'Foolish girl,' Wynne mutters, finishing off with the poultice as her patient begins to drift out of consciousness once more.

* * *

'So. With the boss, aye?'

Alistair looks across at the dwarf. He can smell the liquor from the other side of the campfire – it is strong and bitter and he can see droplets of it dribbling down Oghren's straggly red beard. 'Pardon?'

'You and the boss. Rolling your oats.'

'I don't know – '

'Polishing the footstones.'

'– what you're – '

'Tapping the midnight still, if you will.'

'What _are_ you going on about?'

'Forging the moaning statue. Bucking the forbidden horse. Donning the velvet hat.'

Alistair snorts. 'Are you just making these up right now?'

The dwarf gives a large toothy grin in reply. 'Nope. Been saving 'em.'

Alistair shakes his head in wonder and fervently hopes that Oghren will be unable to remember this – rather one-sided – conversation in the morning. Not that he minds people knowing of his closeness with the other Grey Warden, it's just that he doesn't quite feel ready to talk about it yet. And he doesn't know how she will feel now that their secret is out. He smiles suddenly upon remembering Zevran's expression earlier. Then scowls at the image of the elf's tender touch in an attempt to soothe the pain of the junior Grey Warden. Perhaps the revelation of their…relationship would convince the assassin to back off. But Alistair knows it could just as easily encourage him more. He sighs and turns into his tent for the night, content to dream until the morning.


	8. Home, or Something Similar

The Brecilian forest was thick and green around me. I led the way through the unruly woodland, choosing trails with slightly sparser foliage, with not so many ditches and streams to navigate. I wasn't concerned about Zevran or Jaeger – elves' footing is as sure as anything else in the forest and the giant Mabari was surprisingly nimble for his size. And Morrigan seemed to be as at home here as she would be in the Wilds. The others were having a little trouble, however. Sten, Oghren and Alistair seemed awkward and clumsy as they traipsed over the rough terrain, often stumbling over roots or slipping on pieces of moss. Leliana was taking her time, helping Wynne when the older woman struggled. And Shale lumbered through the undergrowth with such noise that if any darkspawn were in the area, they'd have surely been alerted to our presence. Progress was slow and strenuous. The forest grew darker and darker around us, and I began to worry that we'd have not found any Dalish clans by nightfall. As sure as I was in the forest, I knew that my companions' uneasiness made us vulnerable.

There was an almighty crash from behind me and I spun around to see Alistair sprawling across the ground, his face red in a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.

'Andraste's holey socks! Why can't trees keep their roots _under_ the ground, as the Maker designed them?'

I looked at the ground, but aside from some trampled grass that had been crushed by the fall of the templar, nothing seemed out of the ordinary about the trail we were walking on. There were no raised roots, no overhanging branches, no pebbles or stones littering the ground beneath us. I could not for the life of me understand what had caused Alistair to go crashing down so fiercely.

I shrugged. 'There's nothing wrong with slipping, Alistair. Shemlens are a bit clumsy that way.'

'Some more than others,' interjected Morrigan, her yellow eyes a mixture of indignation and amusement.

Alistair scowled. 'I did not slip. I tripped. There is a difference, you know. Tripping implies that something actually caused you to fall to the ground. Other than…you know…'

'Being a big clumsy shem?' I finished with a smile, reaching out an arm to help hoist him back to his feet.

'I tripped,' he repeated defiantly.

I rolled my eyes and began to turn to start walking again, but then I caught sight of Zevran. He was usually the master of indecipherable looks, but this time he could not help the smirk that was tugging at the corners of his mouth, the slight shake of his shoulders, the gleam of triumph in his eyes. I waited until he caught my eye, and my suspicions were confirmed when he looked away immediately. I shook my head in reproach – here we were, trying to gather allies to fight the darkspawn, yet some of us were acting like cheeky elflings. It was quite unbelievable.

Before too much further, I began to sense that we were close to discovering one of the Dalish camps. Despite the growing darkness, more and more light seemed to stream through the foliage ahead of us, and I knew that there must be some size of a clearing up ahead. Furthermore, I could see that the long grass was flat and trampled in places, revealing tracks from the hunters, no doubt. My ears picked up the gurgling of a spring not too far in the distance that led into a stream. I was convinced that a camp must lie ahead – it was almost the perfect place for it. I knew that it would not be my own clan – we were deep in the southern part of the Brecilian forest and my old family preferred the northern part of Ferelden. Still, I couldn't keep myself from feeling a wave of disappointment when an unfamiliar female marched forward to meet us.

'Welcome, friend,' she greeted warmly, and I bowed in response. She could not have been much older than I and was wearing similar Dalish armour, light and supple, allowing for flexibility and movement. 'I don't believe I recognise you.'

'I'm from one of the northern clans,' I explained, wondering how to describe my purpose.

'You're a long way from home, then,' she replied, an unspoken question hanging between her words. 'And you travel with…unusual companions.' I noticed her eyeing the humans – the shems – with distaste.

I sighed. 'I do not come on behalf of my clan. I come on behalf of the Grey Wardens. It's rather a long story…could you take me to your Keeper?'

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she did not object. I recognised a low, hooting whistle and was unsurprised when several other elves appeared from the trees around us to escort our strange little party into the Dalish camp.

* * *

'So…we're moving from abominations to golems to werewolves now, are we? You know – my life would never have been this interesting if I wasn't a Grey Warden.'

I nodded in reply as Alistair sat down beside me. My mouth was full with some delicious hot stew that our Dalish hosts had insisted on making for the whole party. Their earlier doubts about the shemlens were soon put to rest after I had agreed to help their Keeper with his werewolf problem. As a result, the clan were being very hospitable towards us, for which I was grateful.

'I'm actually surprised that you're not suggesting we tackle the problem tonight,' he continued dryly. 'Seeing as you have a complete disregard for danger.'

I swallowed my mouthful with a gulp, ladling up my spoon with some more. 'I know these forests well. And I know that taking a bunch of shems into the wild after nightfall would be asking for trouble. You'd not be able to see a foot in front of your face, and you'd make so much noise that the wolves would hear you a mile off. Suicide.'

'It's nice to see you have so much faith in us, after all we've been through!' he replied with a laugh, though a little more than indignant. 'Maybe you should just take Zevran, if that's what you think.'

I snorted. 'He's not much better. He was born in a city, not a forest. Though he does have the advantage in that he doesn't trip over things that aren't there.' I remembered that perhaps that wasn't strictly true for Alistair either, and stifled a smile.

'It was a root, and it tripped me,' replied the templar sullenly.

'I think the royal bastard doth protest a little too much, don't you?' said a smirking voice.

I looked up and grinned as Zevran sat himself down on the other side of me, probably a little closer than he needed to. Every few minutes his leg shifted and brushed against mine, and I could feel the touch of his arm against my bare stomach. Despite his warmth, the contact made me shudder.

Alistair noticed my shiver and grabbed one of the wolf pelts that the Dalish had lent us, wrapping it around my shoulders. I wasn't cold, not in the slightest, but I couldn't very well tell him the real reason that I was trembling. I felt a sudden rush of annoyance at Zevran. I could easily shrug off his flirting and audacious comments – more easily than my companions could. But for some reason his way of initiating physical contact held a certain power over me. It was too perfect to be accidental. It was as if he knew exactly where and how to touch me to provoke a reaction. And if my pulse should raise a fraction, if my heart beat only a little harder, he would know about it, and that arrogant, satisfied smile would play out over his lips. Part of me wondered if it was a game to him, if he was playing with me much the way that a cat would play with a mouse.

A tendril of hair fell into my face, and as I went to brush it away, so did Alistair, and our hands met. He smiled at the contact, squeezing my fingers gently, moving his thumb over my palm. His touch was different than that of my fellow elf – it was caring and familiar and seemed comforting rather than exotic. It was different, I decided. Not worse, just different. And he could offer more than cheap looks and cheaper comments. When he had kissed me, it wasn't hollow and meaningless. I could tell in his every movement, his every touch that he wanted this as much as I did, that it meant something to him. I smiled at him, with warmth in my heart. I was back in the Brecilian forest, back amongst the Dalish, and I was in the company of someone I cared a great deal for. And he was a shem, no less! I almost laughed.

* * *

Later on, when everybody else had retired for some rest before our impending quest, Zevran approached me at the halla pen. I'd never paid much attention to the creatures back when I was with my own clan – Tamlen and I had always been too preoccupied with hunting and fighting to concern ourselves with the gentle, deer-like animals. But now I could recognise their beauty, and why our kind revered them so much. Their snow-white down of fur was soft to touch, a texture like nothing I'd ever felt before, and their black eyes looked at me with intelligence and calm. It felt strangely relaxing to be there, as if I was home after a very long journey.

'You must be tempted to give up the whole Grey Warden thing and stay here, no?'

I turned around to see Zevran sauntering down towards me, and couldn't help but smile at his words, despite my earlier annoyance.

'It's home,' I admitted. 'Or something similar. But if I "give up the whole Grey Warden thing," as you put it, then the darkspawn will destroy it. And soon after, they will catch up with my own clan, and destroy them, too. And I can't let that happen. Not after…' My voice caught before I could say Tamlen's name, and I quickly turned back to the halla. I searched for a change of subject. 'What's your opinion of the Dalish, anyway? Seeing as you're a fellow elf.'

Zevran shrugged. 'I know little enough of the Dalish, other than the fact that my mother was one. Or so I'm told. She had fallen in love with an elvin woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good.' He sighed dramatically. 'And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book.'

I was somewhat perturbed, and tried to hide my disconcertion. 'Must be a strange book.'

Zevran gave a lopsided smirk, but it did not convey his customary smugness. It seemed more bitter than usual. 'It seemed normal enough a tale growing up. No different from the other elvin boys in the whorehouse. I didn't know my mother, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were.' There was no mistaking the acidic tone in his voice now.

I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for my fellow elf. I too, grew up an orphan, but my clan were my family and I had such a tight network of support and love that I never at any point felt different from all the other elflings whose parents still lived. To suffer Zevran's existence – raised by whores and thugs, no doubt beaten and treated like dirt – seemed even worse than being in an alienage.

He shook his head, as if to break himself from a reverie, and seemed annoyed at himself for saying so much. 'My original point is that my mother's Dalish nature was always a point of fascination for me. Throughout all my training as a Crow, I only had one possession to remind me of her – a pair of Dalish gloves. But such things were forbidden, and they were taken away, never to be seen again.'

I looked down at my own gloved hands, the leather tight across my palms, worn and ripped in places. 'Do you think you'll go back to Antiva, when this is all over?'

He looked at me, surprised. 'I might. Why do you ask?'

'No reason,' I shrugged. 'If you wanted to go, you could go.'

He regarded me with curiosity. 'And if I wanted to stay?'

I thought for a moment, deciding on my answer. 'I could always use a friend.'

'Hmm,' he replied, noncommittally. 'A friend.'

As we walked back to the Dalish camp, I could not help but notice that his usual smug smirk had returned. It was not directed at me or anything else, rather it was as if he was silently laughing to his own private joke that I knew nothing about.


	9. Temptations

**Author's Note: Thanks again to everyone who has left reviews and/or put the story on their alert lists...great to see that people are still enjoying it!**

* * *

'So the Dalish leader misled us?'

Zevran smirks darkly at the giant golem at his side. 'Are you really so surprised, my rocky friend?'

'No, just trying to picture his little elf head…squishing…ah, there we go.'

The Antivan gives a grim smile and looks at their leader. Her gloved fists are clenched so tightly that it is a wonder her tiny bones do not break from the effort. He can see a vein pulsing furiously in her neck, and her jaw looks like it is set in stone, so hard is she gritting her teeth. This news of a betrayal has obviously surprised the Dalish elf – her trust in the Keeper's word had been immediate and unconditional. Now it seems she is learning that not everybody's integrity is as stoic as her own. The fury on her face his unmistakeable – it seems to Zevran to be almost a feral, primitive ferocity, so much so that she reminds him of one of the werewolves that have them surrounded. The sight of her so incensed piques his interest…and his arousal – who knew the little elf had so much passion in her?

Suddenly she gives a cry of frustration, or perhaps indignation, and punches out in midair. The leader of the werewolves, already on guard, springs forward in defence of the Lady of the Wood, growling and flashing its teeth in the Grey Warden's face. Zevran feels Morrigan shift in unease beside him, but the Dalish elf faces up to the hulking beast, her lip pulled back in a threatening snarl of her own. They stare each other down in fraught tension, until the Lady coaxes the werewolf back into line. The Grey Warden's amber eyes are still steely and furious as she listens to the werewolves' plight.

_It would be so much easier if one of the werewolves just killed her_, Zevran muses, not really listening to the conversation.

And certainly, it looks as though the alpha wolf, Swiftrunner, would gladly do so. Either that, or Zevran is way off the mark in his interpretation of the wolf's…expression. The great beast is at least twice as tall as him, even dwarfing Shale, and Zevran cannot help but admire the monstrous power and strength the creature possesses. Its pelt is shaggy and rough around its huge frame as it flexes its muscles aggressively. Its stature is almost humanoid, but its face is that of a savage killer – intelligent, deep-set blue eyes that are dark with primal rage and menace. And its jaws! Such fearsome, snapping strength, with great yellow teeth that could easily sever an arm. Yes, it would not take such a stretch of the imagination to see this werewolf charging forward in anger and mauling the Dalish Grey Warden in front of him. Of course, that would result in full-scale chaos, allowing Zevran the perfect opportunity to sneak away unnoticed, his contract finally fulfilled. But such desperate hopes rarely come to fruition, and Zevran is unsurprised when the werewolves allow them to leave on the condition that they return with the Keeper, Zathrian, with a view to breaking the curse.

The assassin fingers the hilt of his dagger thoughtfully as they head towards the upper ruins of the lair, wondering if he will ever get the opportunity to press it against the skin of the Grey Warden again. And if he does, will he succeed this time? He casts his mind back to when he stumbled across her hunting alone. What had stopped him then? He could have easily killed her and been a good few miles away before any of the others had even started looking for their missing companion. But something about his fellow elf intrigues Zevran, and now he finds himself caught in a twisted web of conflicting temptations. The temptation to kill her. The temptation to understand her. The temptation to strip her of her armour, throw her on the ground then start to…

'Ah, And here you are already.'

The Antivan's thoughts are interrupted by the voice of Zathrian. The Dalish Keeper is standing at the entrance to the lair, as if he has been waiting for them. His younger counterpart stares back at him in disgust. 'What are you doing here?'

'You have carved a safe path through the forest. Safe enough for me to follow, anyhow.'

Zevran feels the ground beneath him tremble as Shale shifts in displeasure. 'I don't like this one. Can we not simply crush its head?'

Morrigan laughs without a trace of humour in her voice. Her eyes are keen with contempt. 'He wishes to see if we did his work for him. Is that not why you are here now, sorcerer?'

'Do not call me that, witch!' retorts Zathrian angrily. 'I am Keeper of this clan, and have done what I must.'

'Keeper?' The Grey Warden's eyes burn with revulsion and hatred. 'You betrayed _our _people, _my_ people, out of revenge for a crime that was committed centuries ago! The ones who abused and defiled our brothers and sisters are long dead, yet you extend the punishment to those who have committed no crime. You sentence your own clan to the same fate as those who killed your children!'

Zevran has never seen her so angry. Her every word is laced with venom and loathing, except when she mentions her people. Then her voice becomes strained and permeated with despair and loss.

'They trusted you! They looked to you to guide them and protect them, and you betrayed them. You dishonoured them!' Her voice suddenly chokes and she blinks furiously, and Zevran is staring at her in fascination because she looks like she will cry and she doesn't cry – she has never cried. 'You…you are not Dalish.'

The Keeper stares back at her in defiance. 'And what of you? You abandoned your clan to join the Grey Wardens. Can you still call yourself Dalish?'

She steps forward in anger. 'I had a death sentence hanging over me. I left my people to prevent the infection spreading to them. I saved my clan so they would not end up cursed. You cursed yours so that you could be saved.' She takes a deep breath, before reciting some words with vehemence. 'We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.' She looks at the Keeper coldly. 'You are not Dalish,' she repeats.

Zathrian crumbles.

* * *

Zevran does not know if is because of the Grey Warden's heartfelt condemnation or the subsequent pleas of the Lady of the Wood, but Zathrian eventually concedes defeat and grants the werewolves their freedom, bringing about his death and the end of the curse. The Antivan knows the Grey Warden ought to be happy at this outcome, but when he looks at her all he can see in anguish and torment. She does not even try to hide it. The suffering is so painfully obvious that even the black-hearted Morrigan seems to look uncomfortable on her companion's behalf. The misery is hard to watch, and for reasons Zevran cannot quite fathom, he almost wishes he could comfort her. And his desire to kill her seems to have temporarily waned. How strange.

Back at the Dalish camp he does not miss the relief that rushes to Alistair's face when he sees that his fellow Grey Warden is alive and well. It had taken quite a bit of work to convince him to stay behind that morning, and he was only assuaged when she insisted that it would be safer without having to worry about him tripping over and breaking every bone in his body. Zevran had snorted quietly to himself at the image, but no other words had been exchanged. He watches the templar with interest, making note of the care and tenderness in his gestures towards the Dalish elf. Zevran is no fool – he knows that Alistair is smitten with her, and in truth that is partly why he flirts with her so much. The templar is so easily antagonised. But the other part is his own voracious desire, and that is not so easily subdued. The Antivan scowls in frustration – being unable to either kill her or bed her is driving him to the point of exasperation, and he knows that something must give way very soon.

'If you must stare at her so, you could at least be less obvious about it, fool,' scoffs Morrigan from behind him.

Zevran flashes her a dazzling smile. 'Dearest Morrigan, why must you frown so? It is sure to give you wrinkles, you know, and it would be such a shame to spoil a face as beautiful as yours.'

Morrigan merely scowls and walks away, leaving the Antivan feeling satisfied with himself. He is becoming rather talented at grating on the nerves of his companions, if he may say so himself. Of course, none are as fun to provoke as the templar. He glances over to where Alistair was talking concernedly with his fellow Grey Warden, and decides to allow himself a little amusement.

He saunters over to them, exuding guile and arrogance. 'Tsk, Alistair. Did you really think I would allow any harm to come to her?' He slips an arm around the elf's waist, fingers brushing over her bare back as he did so. Her breathing quickens and Alistair's face turns a satisfying shade somewhere between red and purple. 'Of course I brought her back in one piece.'

The Dalish elf squirms away in annoyance before excusing herself, leaving Zevran and Alistair standing alone. The templar's stare is murderous and Zevran finds himself wondering if he just might have a backbone after all. The Antivan smirks in reply, attempting to provoke the young Grey Warden further. Much to his disappointment, however, Alistair simply walks away, helping the rest of the party to gather their belongings before heading out from the Dalish camp.

* * *

By nightfall, the company have still not made it to the outskirts of the Brecilian forest, and are forced to set up a makeshift camp in a small clearing. Everybody is on edge; even Zevran himself is lacking his customary nonchalance; instead he keeps his eyes and ears open, looking around the surrounding forest with alertness. Alistair is sitting poking the fire with a stick, and every few seconds he glances up at Zevran and snorts.

The assassin sighs. The Grey Warden is getting rather tiresome. 'Have you something to say to me, my good friend Alistair?'

'What?' the templar replies, rather disingenuously. 'What could I possibly have to say to you?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Zevran says scathingly. 'Is this not the part where you become jealous and warn me to stay away from her?'

Alistair splutters indignantly. 'Jealous? I'm not jealous!' When the assassin does not reply, he adds defiantly, 'I have no reason to be jealous. She's not the least bit interested in you.'

It is a lie, and Zevran knows it as well as Alistair. He laughs and begins to reply, but he is cut off by a high-pitched screeching sound emanating through the camp. They both leap to their feet, drawing their weapons in time to see the dark, shadowy shapes of several shrieks emerge from the trees. They look at each other darkly. There will be another time for trivial arguments. For now, they were under attack.


	10. Of Friends, Old and New

I panted heavily as the last of the shrieks were dealt with. We were all shaken. Our camp had never been breached before, and to fall under attack under such unsuspecting circumstances had rattled us all. Sten mumbled something about needing to fortify the site, and even Morrigan had moved her tent closer in the wake of the attack. The Brecilian forest was dense and dark around us as we took rest after our coalition with the Dalish. Being back here reminded me of Tamlen, and my memory of him was so vivid that for a moment I thought I imagined him stumbling out of the undergrowth.

I blinked furiously. This was no dream. The elf in front of me was twisted and deformed, warped by something evil, but it was still Tamlen. What had happened to him? It was as if he was made out of shadows; dark and perverted, sickened and destroyed. I ran over to him, unafraid, only hoping to catch a glimpse of my friend, the elf I grew up with and loved. His eyes widened then narrowed as I approached – they were dark and tormented but still that icy blue colour I'd recognise anywhere. I stopped in front of him, inches from his face. My heart swelled and I felt as if it was falling apart inside me when at last he spoke.

'Lethallin?'

I choked back tears and reached out for him. 'Tamlen, Tamlen!'

'Don't! Don't come near me!' he begged. His voice was cracked and raspy, nothing like the smooth, sardonic drawl I was so used to. 'Stay away!'

He began to run away but I was after him immediately, calling to him through my tears and begging him not to leave. I didn't care how twisted and broken he looked – he was alive and he had found me again and that was all that mattered to me. I had my Tamlen back. Finally he stopped, drawing his face away as if I was a garish light he could not bear to stand.

'Don't…don't look at me! I am…sick!' he cried, sounding half-deranged through his despair. 'The song, in my head, it…calls to me. He speaks to me. I can't stop it!' He broke off, gasping for breath in raspy sobs. 'Don't want to hurt you…lethallin…please, stop me!'

'Don't!' I cried. I could barely utter the words through my tears, and my vision of him was beginning to blur from the water in my eyes. 'Don't ask me to do that. Tamlen, come back!'

'I'm…so sorry, lethallin. Never…wanted this.' His eyes filled with such anguish that I could not bear to look. He came towards me, unwillingly attacking me and though I drew my dagger I found that I could not use it. But I did not have to. Tamlen…the ghost of the Tamlen I once knew but still my Tamlen – ran forward, impaling himself on the end of the blade. I let go of the handle as if it burned and wept as he fell to the ground. I crashed to my knees, shoulders heaving as I gasped for breath through thick tears. Tamlen…given back to me for a moment, and cruelly snatched away again.

I was vaguely aware of a strong figure standing behind me. 'What was that?'

Of course it would be Alistair. 'He's not a what – he's a who!' I spat furiously. 'And his name is Tamlen. He was with me when…when…but Duncan didn't save him.' I cried louder. 'Duncan didn't save him!'

Alistair knelt down beside me and pulled me close into him, so that all I could feel was his warmth and his comfort. His hands held me as I shook, keeping me from falling apart. 'I'm so sorry,' he murmured gently, his lips pressed against my hair. 'That is what happens when the taint is left unchecked.' He rocked me gently. 'It…it's better for him, to have it end. It might not feel like it just now, but it was a mercy.'

He carried me back to our slightly more condensed camp, placing me inside my tent. I usually slept under the stars, as I was accustomed to when I lived in the forest with my own clan, but I could not bear to be scrutinised by everybody outside, so I curled up into a tiny ball and tried to sleep. I could hear Zevran shifting about outside and prayed that the assassin would just leave me alone.

'May I ask a question?' His voice was polite, but I did not have the heart to reply. Though he did not receive an answer, he remained outside the tent. I could see his silhouette against the fire and I could imagine him pursing his lips in thought as he struggled with deciding whether to press the matter or not. 'Forgive me, but this term _lethallin;_ it is not one I have heard before.'

Though the word was foreign to him, it seemed natural coming from Zevran's mouth, wrapped in warmth and friendship, as it should be. Hearing him say it did not hurt nearly as much as I imagined it would. In fact, he did not sound altogether different from Tamlen when he said it. Somehow this comforted me, and I felt a sudden twinge of kinship with the Antivan. It was little wonder that he did not know the word. After the humans enslaved the elves, most of our language was lost. It is only the Dalish who work tirelessly to try and rediscover and relearn the ancient tongue.

'It means "friend-of-mine,"' I replied eventually, alarmed to hear my voice hoarse with tears.

Zevran sat outside in silence, unmoving and pensive, and I began to wonder if he had heard my answer. Finally, I saw his shadow rise. 'Thank you,' he said quietly, before adding 'lethallin,' as an afterthought. I didn't know if he was merely repeating the new vocabulary or if he was addressing me. But somehow, if it was the latter, it did not upset me. I closed my eyes, letting the hushed noises and crackling fire wash over me as I drifted asleep.

* * *

I was awoken some time later by Alistair peering in through the tent flaps. I stretched out, feeling weary and shaken.

'Is it morning already?'

'What? No, no. It's late; everybody has turned in for the night.' He hovered at the entrance of the tent, as if he was trying to figure out what to do with himself. Finally, he took a breath and squeezed in through the flaps. 'I just wanted to check on you, to make sure you were all right after…I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry.' He tried to turn around again.

'Stay,' I asked him, reaching out an arm to touch him.

He hesitated, then sank down on top of me, kissing me with such passion that my body felt as if it was not there. His weight was heavy on top of me, pinning me to the ground as his hands found their way to my neck, my hips. He tugged at my lip with his teeth in earnest as his hands roamed over me, and his kisses worked their way down my neck with a sort of urgent desperation. I could feel him pressing his body against mine insistently, his ragged breathing in my ear. Then suddenly, the weight on top of me was gone, and I was lying on my back alone, my body trembling.

I looked up at Alistair in the darkness, who was biting his lip apologetically. 'I can't do it. Not like this. Not after what just happened out there.'

I sat up straight, images of Tamlen creeping back into my mind. I looked into the templar's warm brown eyes. 'You could still stay here, just next to me.'

He laughed, and reached out with a gentle hand to touch my cheek. 'Trust me – I couldn't.' He leaned forward and kissed my forehead. 'Sleep well.'

And he was gone.

* * *

'You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?'

It was early the next morning, and Alistair had gone out to hunt with Zevran and Leliana before we began our attempt at making our way out of the forest. I just hoped the Orlesian would be able to get them both back without them killing each other. There seemed to be an awful amount of tension between them recently. With their absence, Wynne had apparently taken the chance to question me. I regarded the elder mage carefully. 'You know about Alistair and me?'

She smiled knowingly. 'It's hard not to notice the doe-eyed looks he gives you, especially when he thinks nobody is watching. It's almost too sweet for my tastes, and I'm an old lady who should be making lace hearts and fuzzy blankets with animal motifs.'

I was surprised at my being able to laugh, but laugh I did. 'You're not like the average old lady.'

'No, I won't be making socks with pom-poms for you anytime soon,' she admitted, and now her smile seemed a little more strained, her voice a little sharper. 'But that's hardly my point. I've noticed your blossoming relationship, and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going.' Before allowing me time to answer, she ploughed on. 'Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt.'

My eyes narrowed and I struggled not to clench my fists. 'You think I'm going to hurt him?'

'Not intentionally, no. But there is great potential for tragedy here, for one or both of you. You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king. You have responsibilities which supersede your personal desires.'

'Alistair doesn't want to be king.' I felt like an elfling as soon as the words left my mouth, such was my haughty, petulant tone, but I could not help it.

'He has a duty, whether he wants it or not!' Wynne replied sharply. 'And when the time comes, he will be asked to do what is best for Ferelden. Where will that leave you, I wonder?' She sighed, and when she spoke next her voice was softer, gentler. 'Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving the one you love and saving everyone else. And then what will you do?'

'What am I supposed to do? Tell Alistair to go away?' I laughed jokingly. When she didn't answer, I felt panic rising in my chest. 'You're being serious? How can I do that?'

Her mouth was set in a hard line, but her eyes conveyed a wave of sadness and pity. 'You may have to, to save one or both of you unnecessary anguish later on.'

The truth of her words hit home, but I was too angry and spiteful to take heed. 'What do you know of love?' I snarled heatedly. 'You've never left the Circle!'

She flinched disapprovingly before composing herself and allowing a calm mask to sweep over her face. 'I know more about love's enchantments and perils than I care to tell, but perhaps this is one lesson that cannot be taught,' she replied tightly. 'In any case, I have given my advice. Do with it what you will.' With that, she stood and left me alone.

I sat in silence, mulling over her words and fighting to quell the raging anger in my chest. Of course it would come down to what was best for Ferelden. And Alistair as king would be no doubt best for Ferelden. He was kind, and loyal, and just, and a million other words that would never do him justice. And when he took the throne, where would that leave me? I laughed hollowly to myself. An elf could no more become queen than a darkspawn could become a Grey Warden. Wynne was right, of course. I only wondered how I had never seen it coming, until now.


	11. A Brecilian Rendezvous

She has been drinking steadily for a couple of hours now, and Zevran can smell the foul stench of alcohol from the other side of the camp. The dwarf's home-made ale, if he is not mistaken. He shakes his head to himself – he would have been happy to provide some fine Antivan whisky, had she only asked. But she hadn't, and she doesn't ask him to follow her when she wanders out of their roadside camp back into the Brecilian forest. But he follows her anyway. He tells himself that it's only idle curiosity, but his denial is beginning to get the better of him – so much so that he doesn't know what his purpose is here anymore.

It is easy enough to track her through the dense foliage. Usually, he has to use his heightened senses to the best of his ability to catch sound of her light footfalls, but tonight she is crashing through the undergrowth like an Antivan whore chasing a customer who has skipped the bill. Even if she had managed to keep quiet, there is still the stench of liquor drifting through the air. Zevran wrinkles his nose. Dwarf-ale. Really, she should know better. And if she keeps on walking, she is going to end up miles away from the road that they had finally managed to find earlier that day after what had seemed like hours of trekking through the forest. He knows she has a reasonable sense of direction, but he still doesn't want to take any chances, and so decides to reveal himself to her, springing from behind and grabbing her waist with a playful squeeze.

'Z-Zevran!' Her eyes widen with surprise, and she looks so comical that Zevran has to stifle a laugh. 'D-don't tell me you followed me again!' She gives a pitiful hiccup.

'My dear Grey Warden – you should know better. There are many dangerous things lurking in the forest at night. It is not wise for you to be out here all alone, unprotected.' He moves towards her, almost unconsciously, resting his hands on her shoulders and stroking her neck with his thumbs. The touch makes her shiver and her hair stands on end, and Zevran can feel her tremble beneath him. He moves his fingers round to the nape of her neck, tracing her hairline so it would almost appear to an onlooker that he is strangling her. But his touch is deft and gentle, coaxing a soft moan from her lips, which sends a wave of arousal through Zevran's groin.

Suddenly she pulls away, and his eyes flash dangerously, angered at the game she is playing. He watches her smile blithely, unaware of his change of mood. 'Hey Zev…how would you like to join me in my tent? Heh-heh. Heh. Huh.' She hiccups again, staggering slightly.

Zevran clenches and unclenches his jaw, but keeps his voice even as he plays along. 'Oh? Is there something in your tent that needs assassinating? That is my specialty, or so I'm told.'

Ah, there it is. The flash of worry and realisation that he has been waiting for. 'Hmm.' She looks at him carefully, considering him with wary caution. 'I'd forgotten about that part.'

He smiles dangerously, all teeth. 'Forgotten about which part?' he asks sardonically, before pretending to think for a moment. 'Ah I see – the part where I am an assassin once engaged in the task of seeking your life!' He smirks, eyes taking in her trembling body. 'Yes, the privacy of your tent would indeed be an excellent place to further my fiendish goals. How lucky you are to have eluded me so!' His hands drift downwards, flitting over her breasts and coming to rest on her hips. 'Of course, since we are far away from your tent, perhaps we could come up with some equally enthralling activity.'

Without waiting for an answer, he slams her back against a tree and presses his body up against her, forcing her into the bark. He can feel everything through their thin garments – the curves of her body, the material rubbing against them both. He has her by the wrists now but she is not fighting him – it is as if her body is giving way beneath him, abandoning herself to him, surrendering to his dominance. This stirs him even more and he presses his lips to her pointed ears, scraping along the edges with his teeth until he feels her shudder beneath him. He does not stop, continuing to nip and bite all the way down to her collarbone until he can feel her chest heaving under his chin with gasping breaths.

He grabs her thighs, pulling her towards him and suddenly they are on the forest floor, all arms and legs, tangled up in one and other. She has found her way to his neck, kissing so fiercely that Zevran thinks it's going to be all over right then. He pushes her off him, ending up on top of her, pinning her down with his knees. She arches her back beneath him, trying to sit up, but he is too strong and he holds her down by her wrists as he kisses her jaw in gentle, teasing movements. He gives a sharp gasp of shock as she somehow gathers enough strength to fling him roughly from her, coming to rest on top of him, instead.

She smiles temptingly and Zevran gives a surprised moan as he finds her fumbling with his belt. He aids her in her task by ripping away her tunic from her body. His hands are dark across her bare chest as he paws and squeezes, rubbing against her as she gasps in approval. The sound prompts a rush of pleasure to his body, and he rolls over her in urgent haste, dragging her with him across the earth and grass. They lie under the starry sky and the overhanging branches of the trees, clothes discarded and moving against each other in passion and fervour. She wraps her legs around him, and one of his lithe, supple arms holds her up from the ground beneath them as they pant and cry into the night.

* * *

'See? I knew this would happen eventually. I should have warned you right from the moment you refused to kill me. It was inevitable.'

Her eyes open lazily, and Zevran is pleased to see that although the drunken stupor has faded, the passion has not. 'And here I thought I'd seduced you.'

He gives a deep laugh, drawing her bare body towards him, teasing her with his eyes. 'So, if I may ask…what happens now?'

'How do I know this isn't part of your plan?' Her voice makes it sound as if she is joking, but Zevran does not mistake the question in her eyes.

'Hmm, this is true. Seducing the assassination target is a sound tactical choice.' He releases her as a sudden bout of anger comes over him. 'Do you know there are poisons I could ingest that would be harmless to me and yet be killing you as we speak?' Her eyes flicker over him, unsure whether to take him seriously or not. And for that, Zevran could happily kill her. Instead, he takes a deep breath and makes an attempt to calm himself. Perhaps her words cut too close to the bone. Perhaps she is even right to be cautious. Zevran himself had not known what his intentions were a few hours ago, and he isn't that much clearer now. He relaxes, the tension in his arms slipping away as he tries to placate her. 'Are we not past this?' He clucks disapprovingly. 'I thought we were. Is it not a little late for suspicions? The die is cast, so to speak.' He smirks. 'And cast quite well, I might add.'

She returns his grin and sits up, body illuminated in the little moonlight that breaks through the canopy of leaves above them. Zevran is transfixed for a moment before pulling her on top of him. She laughs but does not squirm away, and he feels heat rise in his chest once more. He grins to himself. There are still a couple of hours till sunrise, after all…

* * *

Zevran yawns loudly, squinting into the morning sun as he crawls out of his tent. The two Grey Wardens are already up, nibbling some food before they set back out on the road to Denerim. He senses no tension in the air, and is satisfied that he and his Dalish companion made it back unnoticed a few hours earlier. Though how she can seem so awake is beyond him. Their little after-hours rendezvous has left him irritable through lack of sleep. He takes a seat around the fire, between Wynne and Leliana, listening to the quiet morning conversation.

'I came to check in on you last night,' Alistair murmurs to the other Grey Warden, who stiffens. 'Your tent was empty.'

'I-I wanted to think about some things.' Is it Zevran's imagination, or does she shoot Wynne a hard look? He turns to the older mage, whose face is impassive save for a small twitch in her jaw. Clearly she has given the young elf some food for thought, perhaps an unwelcome reality check. Suddenly the drunkenness and after-dark liaison make sense to him. 'I just went for a walk, to clear my head.'

Concern turns to frustration in the templar's eyes. 'Alone? Didn't we talk about this already?' He rolls his eyes. 'You clearly have a death wish.'

'Alone? Yes, yes I was.' Her eyes never leave the campfire, and she gives no visible signal to Zevran, but all the same he can feel a sense of pleading emanating from her, so he does not bother to correct her.

* * *

It is with some tension that the company packs up and heads out on the road for Denerim. Sten, Leliana and Oghren scout ahead, with Morrigan close behind. Alistair and Wynne walk side-by-side in the middle of the pack, while the other Grey Warden falls further back, looking dejected alongside the great figure of Shale. Zevran takes the rear-guard with Jaeger, observing the divided factions of the group. Of where he belongs, he is not certain. He has time to walk and decide, but he knows by the time they reach the capital, his mind will be no clearer. He notices the pain and confusion in each step she takes ahead of him. He also notices the quick glances Alistair shoots back every few minutes. But Zevran does not feel jealous – he knows to take his pleasures when he can get them and does not begrudge her for doing the same. All the same, he feels that he has complicated the situation unnecessarily, if not for her, then for him.

He knows the Crows will not be far away now. They could catch up with them at any moment, and what then? Even though she spared his life, there have been many times that Zevran has been tempted to follow through on his contract. And each time the opportunity has arisen, he has dismissed it, telling himself there will be another time, a _better_ time. And then last night happened – the best time of all, a chance to end everything – and he couldn't take it. What now? What if the Crows show up to take another shot at it? Where does his loyalty lie?

Beside him, Jaeger whines, as if sensing the elf's inner struggle. Zevran pats him on the head absently, his mind miles away.


	12. Three Words

**Author's Note: Thanks again to all the kind reviewers out there. Clarification for 'Anyonymous' - I am from Scotland, and here in the UK it is much more common to use single quotation marks first, and double for a quotation within another. I study at university here and it is the standard practice for British grammar, in most cases. For me to use single quotation marks for speech is no more incorrect than me using 'colour' as opposed to the American 'color.' Hopefully that clears up your confusion, and I hope you are still enjoying the story.**

* * *

It had been a long couple of days on the road, but the spirits around camp were beginning to perk up a little now that we were almost at Denerim. Leliana had sung her own composition around the fire, much to Morrigan's disgust, and Sten became the object of much hilarity after claiming that the moisture on his cheeks was due to rain from the cloudless night sky above us. When Leliana began teasing him mercilessly, calling him a 'softie,' I had even been able to laugh, and for a second I could forget about everything. Alistair's duty to the throne, my argument with Wynne, the midnight tussle with Zevran a few days earlier. Then I locked eyes with the templar and I knew that I could not hold off on my feelings any longer. Wynne was right. This had to end now, before we got any further and got ourselves any more hurt.

I waited until the others had gone into their tents, and then approached him outside his. 'Listen, there's something I need to talk to you about.'

'I know,' he interrupted, before letting me explain. 'It's been brewing in my mind too, ever since that night when the shrieks attacked. And I hate not talking about it. It's just that, well, we've been on the road, and not had much privacy to really…discuss this.'

'Alistair…' I began.

'Let me talk,' he pleaded, his warm brown eyes shining in earnest. 'Oh how do I say this? You'd think it would be easier, but every time I'm around you I feel as if my head is about to explode! I can't think straight.'

I tried to cut him off. 'I don't think…'

'Here's the thing…Being with you makes me crazy, but I can't imagine being without you. Not ever.' He took hold of my hands, squeezing them gently. 'I don't know how to say this another way…I want to spend the night with you. Here, in the camp.' He gauged my eyes for a reaction, and I fought hard to keep the rising panic from them. 'Maybe this is too soon. I don't know. But I know what I feel.'

'I thought…you didn't want to.' I whispered, confusion and responsibility fighting hard with love and desire.

He shook his head vehemently, eyes burning with earnest. 'I wanted to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place…but when _will_ it be perfect? If things were, we wouldn't even have met. I want it to be with you, while we have the chance. In case…'

'Don't,' I murmured softly. 'Don't say that.' I closed my eyes, trying to catch the tears that were attempting to fall. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to want this. And yet, when he kissed me, I found that I could not stop him. Every fibre of my being was telling me that it was so unbelievably right, even though I knew it was so irrevocably wrong. He tasted nothing like Zevran – instead of warm, far-off places and dusty leather I tasted cool sweetness and the familiarity of home. He was gentle and slow, touching me with tenderness and care, so that I felt as fragile as a newborn elfling or a leaf in autumn. I saw the glint of his Warden's Oath in the light of the fire, and became aware that his cool fingers were touching mine. I realised that somehow, those light pieces of jewellery were all that we were wearing as we fell back into his tent. His arms were wrapped around me, holding me tightly as he kissed me with soft lips.

I ran my fingers through his light hair and he took my hand, pressing his lips against it with such care and warmth that for a moment, I forgot to breathe. He was large and strong, even for a shem, but somehow his power and strength only comforted me, making me feel secure and safe, vulnerable to nothing except his soft touch. His lips never seemed to leave my skin, trailing all over me, leaving me dizzy and lightheaded. He held me close to him all night, and for the first time since Tamlen and I had taken that ill-fated hunting trip, I slept through the night, contented and dreamless.

* * *

When I woke in the morning to Alistair's heavy, snoring frame wrapped around me, I began to feel guilty for only delaying the inevitable pain that was bound to find and destroy us. Last night had only served to prolong the wait before we were finally forced to part, and go our separate ways amid tears and heartbreak. But when he awoke and greeted me with a smile and a long kiss, I could not hold onto the feelings of remorse that had started to burrow their way into me. Something that felt so right could not possibly be wrong. Wynne was mistaken. Alistair and I were stronger than that. We would face what was to come, and together, we would overcome it. I knew this as well as I knew myself, and Alistair laughed at the fierce look on my face.

'Surely it wasn't _that_ bad, was it?' He said with a laugh, wrapping a strong arm around me.

'What? No! I was just thinking!' I laughed, leaning into him.

He smiled. 'You've been doing a rather lot of that lately.'

'Well, one of us Grey Wardens has to do it,' I teased, nudging him lightly.

'Oh, so that's how it's going to be, is it?' He asked, chuckling. 'You _do_ know the rest of our little party here is going to talk? They do that.'

My heart began to pound at the sudden reminder of Zevran, but I laughed it off easily. 'One smart comment and I'll feed them to the darkspawn.'

He laughed along with me. 'See? This is why I love you.'

That was when I knew I'd made the right choice.

* * *

We'd be at Denerim by nightfall, and for that, I was grateful. I was getting tired of the rough, sandy road under my feet, and was longing for the promised hospitality of Arl Eamon's estate. Not for my sake, but for Alistair's. I was used to the wild temperament of nature, and was well versed adapting to it, but the templar made no secret of his longing for clean, fresh linen and decent meals. I smiled to myself, marvelling at the differences between the shem and I, and our closeness despite them.

As if reading my thoughts, Alistair stepped into pace beside me as we walked, pulling me towards him and kissing me deeply. I was vaguely aware of Zevran behind us, and felt my shoulders tense in discomfort and fear that my fellow elf would have something to say. When Alistair broke away, and I was able to sneak a look, however, his face was a mask of composure and indifference. I let out the breath I'd been holding. Perhaps Zevran really did not care about whatever was happening between Alistair and I. The assassin made no secret of his penchant for cheap thrills whenever he could get them, so it was no stretch for me to believe I was just another forgotten name in a long list. I tried to determine whether this bothered me or not, before coming to the conclusion that there was no reason why it should. However, there was a niggling, troubled feeling somewhere inside me that I could not fully eliminate.

My thoughts were interrupted my Morrigan's sharp sarcasm. 'Oh, go on! You are both making me ill.'

Alistair grinned. 'Two birds with one stone…I could get to like this.'

'Birds? Where? I shall crush their feathery squishiness beneath my foot!' came Shale's heated voice.

Behind us, Zevran coughed pointedly. I turned around to see a wicked glint in his eye. 'Might I offer you a piece of advice, my good friend Alistair?'

Alistair narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 'I like my hair the way it is, thank you.'

'Truly?' Zevran shook his head in disbelief. 'As you wish. Though my advice is regarding something else completely. It has to do with your recent…exertions with your fellow Grey Warden that I overheard.'

I froze. Alistair glanced sideways at me. 'My?...Oh.'

I turned around to glare at the assassin but he ignored me completely, instead flashing Alistair a taunting smirk. 'It did seem as if you just got going when all grew quiet. You are…feeling all right, yes? Perhaps you are tired?'

The templar looked back in disbelief. 'We aren't talking about this, are we? Did I hit my head?'

'I have some roots from home that you may chew if you need energy. As for volume, perhaps you ought to try arching your –'

'Whoa! Whoa! Awkward!' Alistair cried, glancing frantically from me back to Zevran.

The assassin merely laughed. 'You Fereldens are so finicky. How will you ever learn to pleasure each other if you do not talk about it?'

'Not listening!' Alistair retorted, running further ahead. 'La la la la la!'

As soon as he was out of earshot I grabbed Zevran by the arm. 'What are you playing at? I hissed.

'Me?' he replied innocently, but I did not mistake the cruel, scathing flash of his eyes. 'I was merely offering a friend some advice. Is there something wrong with that?'

'Drop the coy act – I want to know what game you're playing!' I snapped angrily.

The mask dropped and his face hardened with a mixture of antagonism and contempt. 'You do not wish me to be coy? Perhaps I should be straight-forward with dear Alistair and give him a blow-by-blow account of that night under the leaves of the Brecilian forest, hmm? I'm sure he would _love_ to know what I did to make you moan and gasp so…I did not hear many of _those_ noises coming from your tent the other night, unless I am mistaken? Or perhaps I should pick you up and ravish you right here in front of him? They say a visual medium is much more effective than simple words, no?'

'I-I…' I stuttered, caught between outrage and guilt.

'Or is the "coy act," in fact, fine for you, my dear Grey Warden?'

I swallowed hard. 'It's fine,' I muttered lamely.

He smiled tightly. 'As you wish.' His eyes flashed with something like disappointment as he wrenched his arm from my grasp and began to walk away. I trailed behind with Jaeger, all earlier elation firmly dissolved. I told myself that it would all be over soon, that Zevran would soon return home to Antiva and I would be able to start afresh with Alistair. But that niggling feeling in my heart did not want to see the back of the former Crow, and I began to wonder if there may be in fact more in store for us than I had anticipated.


	13. Zevran

**Author's Note: As promised, here is the second 2nd-person narrative to go with the 'Alistair' chapter earlier in the story. Like I said previously, these are going to be the only two chapters written in the 2nd-person narrative, one Alistair, one Zevran, to balance each other out. So hope everybody likes it as much as the other one! Updates will probably be coming a little slower over the festive period, but I'm sure everybody will be busy with their own festive plans so hopefully the waits between updates won't feel too long! Reviews are welcome, as always, and it's really great motivation to hear what people think. Enjoy!**

* * *

This is how it feels to be Zevran.

You are angry. You are angry at lots of things. You are angry at her, you are angry at Alistair, you are angry at the Crows; you are angry that any of this ever happened. But it has. And for that reason, you are most angry at yourself.

You let it get this far – there's no two ways about it. However much you try to deny it or diminish its significance, you know that you had the chance to stop this, and you didn't. Of course, you try to blame her – had she not spared your life, none of this would have happened. But you quickly realise that blaming her is quite futile. When it comes down to it, you like being alive, and know that if it wasn't for her sense of compassion, however foolishly misguided it may be, you would be little more than a pile of bones just now. And for that, you are grateful. So blaming her is out of the question.

Who is left to blame, then? Yourself?

You have had multiple opportunities to kill her. You've even come close once or twice. But it seems as though when it comes to senses of compassion, hers is not the only one that is foolishly misguided. You tell yourself that you are being irrational – the fact that she showed you mercy is a weakness of hers that should be easy for you to exploit. It does not mean that you have to extend the same courtesy to her. But you do, nonetheless. And you cannot for the life of you understand why.

You do not feel jealous when you see her with Alistair. You do not know jealousy. You do not know love. Born of a whore and bred an assassin, as you are fond of saying. Pleasure and death – with these concepts you are very familiar. Where does that leave room for love?

And yet…there are times when you experience emotions that are foreign to you, and you have no way of explaining them. You see the look on her face when Alistair gives her the rose, and you wonder what you could do to achieve the same result. You see the way he stares at her when he thinks nobody is watching, and you find yourself sorely tempted to stick a dagger in his back. You tell yourself that you are being ridiculous, that you should be looking for ways to kill her, not to please her, and yet when she presents you with a shoddy pair of Antivan leather boots, you feel as though you've been given all the treasures in Ferelden.

You know that taunting Alistair and playing the antagonist is juvenile and idiotic, but you cannot help it. You feel frustrated that she would turn to him when you have so much more to offer her. He is a human, and a royal one at that, and there is only so much that he can give an elf, whether that elf is a Grey Warden or not. Whether he loves her or not. You know this and yet you cannot point it out, because if you say something that will show her that you care, and you don't care. You don't care at all. You don't ever think of the night in the Brecilian forest, and you definitely haven't consigned each smell, each movement to memory. You can barely remember the way she felt against you, the way she moved beneath you. So what is making it so hard for you to forget?

It is dusk, and the grey clouds in the sky are lightly tinged with the orange and pinks of the sleeping sun. The light is fading quickly, and you are grateful that you have arrived safely at Denerim. You've had this feeling for some time now – the feeling that you are being watched, being followed, as if from far above, like the piercing eye of a hawk. Or perhaps under the black shadow of a crow…

* * *

You would normally agree with her choice to approach the arl's estate through the back alleys. Your little party is not so little anymore, and it is unwise to draw attention in a city where many are unfriendly to your cause. But you find yourself on edge as you move swiftly through the narrow streets. It is not paranoia, not quite. More an ominous sense of foreboding. You want to tell her, to warn her, but the words sound foolish even in your head, so you decide to fall behind quietly, hoping that any danger will slip and make itself known to you before it can reach the bulk of the party.

You see a familiar figure atop a set of stone stairs and fall back into the shadows, allowing the rest of the party to walk ahead. 'And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last. The Crows send their greetings once again.' You notice Alistair step in front of the said Grey Warden protectively, and you are grudgingly grateful for that at least. He'd be foolish to take any chances where the Crows are concerned. 'And where is Zevran? I don't see him with you. How very disappointing.'

Her elvin reflexes are sharp, you'll give her that. She does not miss a beat in her reply, though she had not been aware of your disappearance. 'Zevran? Zevran who?'

The Crow in front of her takes a step forward in anger, and you decide to show yourself. This is your fight, not hers, and you will not see her suffer for your mistakes. 'Here I am, Taliesen. Tell me, were you sent? Or did you volunteer for the job?'

Taliesen catches sight of you, and lets out a laugh. 'Oh ho! And he makes an appearance! I volunteered, of course.' His focus drifts from the Grey Warden to you, and you feel a twinge of satisfaction. 'When I heard that the "great Zevran" had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.'

'Is that so? Well here I am, in the flesh.' You hold out your arms casually, but you know that your former colleague will not mistake the aggression in your stance.

Taliesen considers you for a moment, as if weighing up his options. 'You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this and I don't blame you. It's not too late. Come back and we'll make up a story – anyone can make a mistake.'

Well, if this isn't an intriguing offer. You have only seconds to make your mind up, even though you know you'd struggle given hours. You have been offered a chance for everything to end – a fresh start back in Antiva, away from all this mess you've got yourself involved in. It is almost too tempting to resist. You make note of the extra assassins and archers around the small courtyard. Whatever side you choose, the fight will be an even one. Perhaps you will be the one who decides the outcome. In the passing seconds, the decision that you have been struggling with for weeks and weeks looms tantalisingly in front of you, just out of your grasp. Such a simple and delicious solution. But first of all…

'Of course, I'd need to be dead first,' she says loudly, daring to steal a glance at you.

And that is what it comes down to. Whether you can bring yourself to kill her, after all this time. 'That's true. You would need to be dead,' you answer, perhaps a little too thoughtfully for Alistair's liking, for the templar clenches his fist around the hilt of his sword.

She notices this and scowls at him, before turning to you and giving you a measured glance. Finally, she turns back to Taliesen, her voice sure and confident. 'Zevran is free of the Crows. He is free to do as he wishes, and yet he remains here. I do not doubt his loyalty.' You notice as she inclines her head towards Alistair at these last words, giving him a silent warning.

Taliesen laughs cruelly. 'You don't even know who you're talking about, do you?' He draws a sword from his belt, advancing towards her menacingly. Your mouth runs dry at the sight of the human approaching the small elf.

'And neither do you, Taliesen.' You are almost surprised at the words coming forth, but her vote of confidence coupled with the danger she is in convinces you that you would not be able to strike her down. 'I'm sorry, old friend, but the answer is no. I'm not coming back.' You draw your daggers threateningly, feeling the anger inside you build up. 'And you should have stayed in Antiva.'

Chaos ensues, and your first instinct is to run and protect her but you know that if you do so, you and Alistair shall just end up getting in each other's way. So you make your way towards Taliesen, knowing that if you bring him down, she will have a better chance of surviving. You are light on your feet, darting this way and that, but these assassins have been trained the same way as you and anticipate your every move. You find yourself grabbed by the throat by a particularly brawny human, but an arrow whistles past your ear and lands embedded in the middle of his forehead.

You spin around to see your Grey Warden give you a wink and a smile, but before you can call out and warn her, Taliesen has a dagger at her throat. You watch helplessly as her eyes widen in shock then narrow in anger as she kicks backwards into his groin. The distraction proves to give her enough time to draw her twin daggers, and you have suddenly never been more grateful for giving her that practice in melee combat, even though, if truth be told, it was merely an excuse to touch her unnecessarily. They circle for a few seconds before engaging, and you know with a frantic realisation that it will be over before you can get to her – he is too powerful, too experienced.

Suddenly a pair of arrows flits through the air, landing in the assassin's neck. You watch Taliesen fall to the ground, as Leliana approaches from behind you.

'Sorry it wasn't sooner,' she apologies to the Grey Warden, shrugging. 'I didn't have a shot.' She helps the elf up to her feet and suddenly you feel weak at the knees, ready to collapse in a puddle right there in the courtyard. You rush over to her, roaming your hands over her skin, checking that she is still in one piece, undamaged, that none of the blood is hers. Then you find yourself barged rudely out of the way by Alistair, who gives you a dirty look before tending to his love.

* * *

When she approaches you later in the estate, when you are cleaned up and rested, you find yourself unable to choose your words. So you decide to stick with what you know. 'And so it is over. The Crows will assume I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.'

She looks at you appraisingly. 'So you can leave now.' Your heart sinks, unsure if her words are a question or an order. 'If that's what you want, I mean,' she adds hurriedly. 'I don't want to force you to stay if…if…'

You want to tell her that you have no intention of leaving now, or ever. But, as always, you play down your significance in the grand scheme of things. 'I made an oath to you. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, no?' You meet her eyes, willing her to see what is behind the façade. 'I am with you till the end. Provided you do not tire of me first. Or, I die. Or you die. But there you go.' You force a laugh and she nods in reply. Unconvinced. Perhaps even disappointed.

Before she leaves, she kisses you on the cheek. 'Thank you, Zevran.'

This is when you realise you made the right choice.

This is how it feels to be Zevran.


	14. Many Decisions

**Author's Note: Hi everyone, sorry it has taken so long to update...after a break over Xmas and New Year I was ready to start posting updates again when my internet broke down! Just got it fixed today, so here's the next installment. Uni will be starting again soon, so the chapters won't be so frequent, but hope to still continue with the story. Thanks for all the reviews over the festive period...enjoy!**

* * *

It was my fault. My own stupid fault for not breaking things off when I had the chance, for making this separation harder than it need be. I was a fool. Elves were not meant to be with humans, that much was clear to me now. I only wish I had seen it sooner – it would have saved us both a lot of unnecessary pain and heartache. Why oh why had I fallen for him so easily? It shouldn't have happened. It was an unnatural thing to happen. Tamlen and I had spent most of our childhood watching in glee as the older clanfolk chased the shemlens from our forest. And as soon as we were old enough, we'd picked up our bows and joined in the fun, not afraid to kill when the situation called for it. Not afraid to kill if it _didn't_. _They_ were the enemy. The humans. The shems. So how could I have found myself in this situation? Why had I not just made the easy choice and stuck with Zevran? The Dalish distrust humans at best. At worst? We hate them. So in theory, choosing between the affections of an elf and a human should have been easy for me. Too bad, then, that the heart has a way of throwing theory out the window.

'Hey!' Footsteps quickened behind me, catching up. '_Hey!'_

'What?' I snarled, as Alistair grabbed my arms and spun me round to face him.

'Don't just storm off like that!' he chastised me, shaking my shoulders. '_You _made the decision for me – there's not really much that I can do!'

'Maybe not, but there's something that _I _can do,' I told him, unable to keep the mixture of anger and tears from my voice. '_Leave._'

He grabbed me as I tried to walk away. 'You can't leave. You're a Grey Warden and you took an oath to stop this blight. You've got a responsibility here, just as much as I have. Neither of us has to like it, but let's just get the archdemon out of the way before worrying about after.'

'You've made it quite clear that there is no "after,"' I hissed, trying to pull my arm from his grasp. 'It's your _duty_ to marry another shemlen and have a little shemlen baby who will take over daddy's mantle one day.'

He tightened his grip in anger. 'If you had _waited_ before running away like a _child_ then you'd have realised that I wasn't finished!' He exhaled deeply, his face red with rage. 'We could still be together. You know, unofficially.'

There was a growling noise and I realised that it was coming from me. 'I am not a flat-eared human _pet_ – I am not an alienage elf ready to be taken by whatever noble fancies me! I have more respect for myself than that. And I thought you would have more respect for me, too. I cannot believe you would suggest such a thing.'

He frowned, shaking his head in contempt. 'Don't pretend this is about respect – this is about your own ego. I would give anything…_anything_…for us to be together. Do you realise the scandal this would cause if somebody found out? I am willing to risk _everything_ just for you.' He was furious now. 'So don't accuse me of standing in the way of us being together. Take a look at your pride, this sense of Dalish superiority you have! Then see if you can honestly tell me that it's my fault!'

This time I was successful in pulling my arm away from him, but I couldn't walk away. I stood, frozen to the spot, gently swaying as the tears began to fall. 'Alistair…'

The anger in his face quickly evaporated and he pulled me close to him, tucking my hair behind my ears, touching their pointed tips with care and affection. 'Look, you don't have to decide now. There's still the small matter of the archdemon to contend with.' He chuckled at his half-hearted attempt at humour, before sighing and looking into my eyes. 'After that, we'll have time. As much time as we need. I promise.' He kissed my forehead gently. 'Come on, Riordan wants to see us about tomorrow.'

* * *

And I had thought the arguing would be over for the night. I suppose we did fairly well in front of Riordan, discussing the matter with calmness and civility, but as soon as the older Grey Warden had left the room, all hell broke loose.

'You're going to be _king_ soon, remember? It's your duty not to go and get yourself killed!'

'_I'm_ the senior Grey Warden out of the two of us! It should be me who delivers the final blow!'

'Oh, so this is about _glory_ now, is it? King Alistair, hero of Ferelden, making the ultimate sacrifice?'

'No! You stupid…stubborn…pig-headed…elf! This is about keeping you alive because I damn well _love_ you!'

And just like that, the room fell silent. The two of us stared at each other, not speaking a word, barely even breathing. Then suddenly he stormed towards me, picking me up as if I was made of nothing and kissing me passionately as I squeezed my legs around his waist. He was urgent and desperate, throwing me down on his spacious bed before ripping his shirt off. The material beneath me was soft and flexible, nothing like the hard ground we had been so accustomed to in our travels. And the scents – everything was clean and fresh and new…so unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. I gave way beneath him as he moved on top of me, struggling with his belt with one hand while holding himself up with the other.

And then came the knock at the door.

Alistair rolled off the bed, pulling his shirt on and cursing in frustration. I straightened my clothes and picked up my quiver that lay discarded on the floor, as if we had just been discussing tactics.

'Ah, I thought I might find you here! I hope I am not interrupting anything?' Zevran's voice came from the doorway, and his eyes flitted over me, from my boots to the quiver that was now on my back. He appeared to be satisfied. 'No? Good. Morrigan is waiting in your room, my dear. I was passing and she asked if I knew your whereabouts. It appears I am a very good guesser, yes?' His eyes flashed in amusement, but there was something else behind them, too. Something darker.

'I'll see you later,' murmured Alistair.

I nodded before leaving the room with Zevran. The former Crow seemed to be fraught, on-edge about something or another. His jaw was tight and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists, running his fingers through his braided hair. I watched him curiously, as we walked down the hallway and my door grew nearer and nearer. I wondered if he would speak his mind, or leave me saying nothing.

Eventually, he stopped. 'I heard everything,' he said shortly.

I was unsure of what to say. The relationship between Alistair and I was no secret as far as our party was concerned. And Zevran had never shown any interest in it before now. I waited patiently for him to expand.

He sighed. 'I know that one of you must die tomorrow in order to slay the archdemon. And, forgive me for saying so, but I would much rather it be Alistair than you.' I opened my mouth in protest but he placed a swift finger on my lips. 'I know, I know. It's selfish and it's none of my business, but it is not only you two that have something to lose.' His eyes studied me carefully, and he took my head in his hands. Before I knew it he was kissing me, and it was just like the night in the Brecilian forest, for Zevran had not yet washed and I could still smell the sweat and the leather and everything else that made him who he was. I didn't know why, but I was kissing him back, kissing him with such desire and longing that suddenly the world made no sense to me anymore. His hands were in my hair, tugging at the roots almost violently in his fervour. I could taste blood from a bitten lip and I did not know if it belonged to him or me, only that it was the most sweet, delicious thing I'd ever tasted.

He broke off, holding me at arm's length, his hands grasping my wrists with extraordinary strength. He seemed to be catching his breath. Finally, he looked at me. 'I stood by you when Taliesen attacked. I did not go back on my word, even though I so easily could. But I ask you to do something for me.' His eyes searched mine, as if trying to find his answer before he need ask his question. 'Do not lay with Alistair tonight. Come to me.'

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know why he would ask me such a thing. I had become sure that I was simply a fleeting amusement for Zevran, that he had taken his pleasure with no attachment. The Antivan I knew did not become emotionally involved, let alone jealous. What had possessed him to make such a request of me? 'Zev, I-I…'

'I will not beg,' he replied harshly, clenching his jaw. Then he relaxed. 'I will not beg,' he repeated softly. 'Nor will I wait for an answer. Go and speak with Morrigan. You know where to find me, if you find that that is what your heart desires.' He bowed his head before releasing my arms and striding towards the flight of stairs that would lead him to his own room. I stood, dazed from confusion, before gathering myself and entering my room to come face to face with the keen-eyed figure of Morrigan.

* * *

'You _are_ joking, right?' Alistair asked, disbelieving. My face was deadly serious, and his disbelief quickly turned into pleading. 'No, really. Tell me that you're joking. Please?'

I shook my head. 'You were the one that said you'd do _anything_ to – '

'Yes, yes, I know what I said,' he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. 'It's just…Morrigan? And a child? It's crazy!'

'It's no different to what's going to happen in the future, if we get through this,' I tried to reason. 'You'll have a queen you'll have to lay with, in order to produce an heir. Just think of it as a practice-run.' I smiled weakly, trying to hide the pain I was in. He couldn't see – not if I wanted him to agree. He had to believe that I was fully behind my convictions. That I truly thought this would save us.

'Even if I was willing to entertain this…idea,' he said slowly, looking nauseated. 'Are you sure this is really what you want me to do? I mean, truly?'

I fought to keep my face even. 'Weren't you the one who told me I had to let go of my pride and ego for us to get through this? Please, Alistair. Trust me.'

He let out a deep breath, before groaning. 'Where is she? I'd better go and get this over with, before I change my mind.' Before leaving the room, he paused and turned back, touching my cheek with his hand and pressing a kiss to my lips. 'I love you.'

I watched him go, unsure of where to go, what with him and Morrigan soon to be together in my room. Alistair's room began to feel stuffy and cramped without him there, and I suddenly felt a desire for fresh air. I longed for the peace of the gardens. I longed for the solitude of being beneath the vast night sky. I longed for freedom.


	15. Misunderstood

Zevran knows as soon as he crashes down on his bed that he is not going to be able to wait there, wondering if she will choose him. He is tense and frustrated, and his shoulders feel tight under his light armour. Kicking off his battered Antivan leather boots, he begins to pace around his roomy quarters in worry and irritation, wondering why he has made such a request of the Dalish Grey Warden. Wondering why he is fraught over her decision. She is just another woman – another in a long line that has gone and is long forgotten. And yet for some reason Zevran is sitting alone in his quarters, moping over her. He sighs to himself. He should be wandering the estate right now, looking for a fair maiden to bed as a distraction. After all, it might be his last chance – tomorrow holds many possible outcomes, the most likely one being certain death. Why should he deny himself carnal pleasures on what could be his last night on this earth?

This is what the Antivan tells himself as he pulls his boots back on and heads back along the corridor, his eyes keen for a servant or visitor to charm back into his bed. He is not intending to intrude on the Grey Warden's privacy – in fact, he walks right past her door without a second thought. But something sharp seems to stab him right in the gut, and he finds himself unable to resist picking the lock. His slender hands are deft and silent, and he is able to open the door a crack without the room's occupants noticing. The room is dark, and there is a slight smell of incense in the air, as if a candle has sudden been blown out. Zevran's elvin eyes scan the darkness before he abruptly springs back from the door, drawing a sharp breath as he does so.

His hands are balled into white-knuckled fists as he retreats into his own room, slamming the door behind him with such force that the wood rattles on its hinges. He kicks an old oak chest viciously, scuffing the leather of his boot and sending a wave of shock up his leg. The pain only serves to make him angrier, and when he rips off his armour plating, sending it flying across the room with a crash, he notices the raised veins in his forearms, indicative of the rage and adrenaline pounding through his system. He glances at his dagger lying discarded on the bed, and reaches out for its hilt, fingering the grooved patterns. He is suddenly tempted to run the blade through someone. Nobody in particular. Though if it should happen to be a certain templar and future king…

The assassin feels another wave of anger burst through him, and he grips the dagger harder as he remembers the sight in the room. Alistair's body against the sheets, submissive and yielding. And above him, the creamy pale skin of a woman…

* * *

'What was that?' the templar asks in panic. He could swear he heard the sound of a door creaking. He looks up at her. 'Did you hear something?'

Morrigan rolls her yellow eyes contemptuously. ''Twas nothing, Alistair. Really, you are quite twitchy enough without jumping at shadows.' Her voice lowers into a seductive purr, throaty and enticing. 'You will find this much more pleasant if you can just _relax_.'

He squirms beneath her, looking anything but relaxed, but unable to completely hide his reluctant, primal desire. She knows it probably disgusts him – that he will be struggling with his conflicting guilt and physical yearning. She could offer a word or two of assurance, but 'tis not her job to relieve him of his guilt. Her job is the same as it always has been – to use the needs and desires of others to get exactly what she wants.

She gives an alarming smile and creeps towards him, her pale body moving over his with lithe, deadly grace.

* * *

The fresh air was biting and sharp in my lungs, and the raw coldness served to calm my jangling nerves. The inky, dark sky was vast and unforgiving above me, both familiar and foreign at the same time. It was hard to believe that it was the same sky that I had gazed at through the forest leaves with Tamlen so long ago. It was hard to believe it was the same sky that I might come to my death under tomorrow. So much had changed in the past couple of months – I felt disorientated and off-balance, as if all the events since Ostagar had suddenly caught up with me.

Alistair was going to be king, and he had asked me to be his sordid, secret mistress in the castle. To save one of us from dying, he was taking part in a sordid, secret ritual with Morrigan. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I felt so confused, as if nothing in the world made sense anymore. I suddenly longed for a simple life, with no complications or troubles to worry about. I needed something straightforward and easy, that would not distract me from my duty as a Grey Warden. That would not devalue my nature as a Dalish elf. I imagined Tamlen's face upon my telling him the cheap, second-class life I was set to destine myself for.

_You deserve better than that, lethallin_, he seemed to murmur in my head.

I had to stop this, now.

Before I knew it, I was running back through the corridors of the arl's estate, flinging open the door that I had been searching for. A lone figure sat on the bed with his head in his hands. I barely heard the door click shut behind me as I fell down on top of him, parting his lips with my mouth and grabbing fistfuls of his hair in my hands. I was urgent and passionate against him, because I knew that this was what I deserved, this was the right decision for me. Maybe not the decision I wanted, but the _right_ one.

At first he seemed to submit, flattening his body beneath me and roaming his hands over my back. But then suddenly I was flying off the bed, pinned to the wall by a strong, desperate hand around my neck. I looked into his eyes, and for the first time since we had first met, I was truly afraid of him.

He wanted to kill me.

* * *

Zevran feels his hand tighten unconsciously, for it is as if he is not in control of himself anymore, such is the extent of his anger. He watches as her amber eyes widen in fear, and he bitterly wonders how he has allowed things to grow so out of control, how he has allowed someone so deep under his skin that they actually had the ability to _hurt_ him. Not physically, of course. Pain comes with being an assassin, with being a Crow, and Zevran can deal with a flesh wound, a searing burn, a broken bone or two. What he can't deal with is the blackness gripping his heart when he realises that she has come to him second. She has lain with Alistair and now comes back to him. Whether it is out of pity or mere selfishness on her part, Zevran does not know, but he cannot risk himself hurting any more than he does now. This is why his hand begins to squeeze.

'W-Why?' she managers to splutter, and for a moment her eyes are filled with such anguish and confusion that Zevran almost relinquishes his hold. Almost.

It turns out that 'almost' is all she needs. Upon seeing the hesitation in his eyes, she lets out an almighty kick to his groin and Zevran collapses to his knees, gasping in agony. By the time he staggers to his feet, she is reaching for the dagger on his bed and he lunges towards her, grabbing her around the waist and bringing her to the ground with him. He tries to restrain her until a sharp pain in his arm causes him to whip it away with a loud Antivan curse. He sees blood beginning to ooze from teeth marks, and she spits red onto the wooden floor beneath them. He is furious now, and aims a kick to her exposed stomach. Damn her quick reflexes! She rolls out of the way, escaping with only a grazing boot print across her navel. They both attempt to clamber towards the dagger again, clawing and tugging at each other in their struggle.

She reaches it first, but Zevran is able to wrench it from her grasp and now he is straddling her, the blade pressed tightly against her throat. The Antivan breathes heavily as he prepares to finally fulfil his contract. But his hand is shaking, and she can feel the blade trembling against her neck.

'What are you waiting for, Zev?' she spits venomously, her eyes ablaze with defiance and anger.

Zevran does not know. He finds himself thinking wildly for something that will distract him, that will provide an excuse for him to let her live. He'd even be grateful if Alistair burst into the room. Because, even now, he cannot bring himself to kill her.

She laughs sourly, mistaking his hesitation for gloating. 'To think I ever believed you were loyal.'

'Do not speak to me of loyalty!' he hisses back, leaning forward so his face is almost touching hers. 'If you understood loyalty you would not return to me now after bedding your fellow Grey Warden.'

'I-I…What?' she looks genuinely confused, all traces of hatred slipping from her face. 'I've not been with Alistair. I've been in the gardens.'

'You lie,' Zevran snarls, but something in eyes falters and his pressure on the dagger's hilt subsides a little. He continues, albeit with a bit less certainty. 'I saw you in your room.'

She closes her eyes, as if in pain, and when she opens them again Zevran is surprised to see them glistening with tears. 'You saw Morrigan.'

The dagger clatters to the floor as she begins to explain about some sort of bizarre dark-magic sex-ritual that will save their lives. Zevran would normally be quite intrigued by such things but he is barely listening to her now. He can barely hear anything over the sound of his heart beating furiously, the sound of his humanity returning. His eyes flit over her tangled hair, her bloody lip, the red, finger-like marks around her neck, and he realises that he has never wanted her more.

She is just getting to the part about a darkspawn demon-baby when Zevran interrupts her with a rough, hard kiss. She hisses in what he knows is probably pain, but with more than a little pleasure, too. Her reply is to grab him ferociously by the hair, pulling him towards her in a mixture of desire and wrath. His dexterous hands make quick work of her Dalish clothing, and he is eager to undress himself in accordance. Her hands tear and scratch across his bare, muscled back, and Zevran does not think he has ever felt something so pleasurable. He is none-too-gentle either, grasping her skin with vehemence and lust, drawing long, gasping moans from her throat.

It gets to the stage that Zevran no longer knows if they are making love or still fighting, but the arousal racing through his body tells no lies. When it is over they lie panting in each other's arms, intertwined and inseparable. The clean, linen bedsheets are now sweaty and ripped in places, crumpled and dishevelled. His body feels bruised and battered, and he is not sure what injuries are from their fighting and which are from their loving. He is not even sure if he can separate the two.

He examines the bite marks on his arm with a detached interest. 'Lethallin?'

'Hmm?' she hums in reply. If she is surprised by the term of endearment, she does not show it. Instead, she looks up at him, grinning devilishly, before rolling on top of his tanned, sculpted body and arousing him with a kiss.

'I think we should fight more often.'


	16. Of Courage

**Author's Note: Well! I know it's been a while since I updated this, but when Mass Effect 2 was released I just couldn't put it down! I was tempted to start an ME2 story but I couldn't let this one remain unfinished, so I started working on it again, seeing as it is nearly done. This is the penultimate chapter! Thanks to all those who have reviewed/favourited/put this on your story alerts! Great to see that you have been enjoying it.**

* * *

'So, going off to slay the dragon without me, hmm?'

I scowled and kicked a darkspawn corpse's head in frustration. We'd been over this a hundred times already. 'I can't trust you not to do anything stupid up there. Morrigan's…well what she did should protect Alistair and I, but I don't want you getting in the way of the killing blow because of some paranoid protectiveness.' He still looked unconvinced, so I added hastily, 'Besides, I need you to keep an eye on Jaeger. I'll hold you personally responsible if he's not wagging his tail when I get back.' I tried to keep my tone light, but the possibility of me not coming back hung in the air above us, unspoken but nevertheless an invisible, threatening warning.

Zevran seemed sceptical, and when he spoke it sounded like he was fighting to keep the anger and worry from his voice. 'You're planning on making the killing blow,' he said neutrally.

I clenched my jaw. 'Yes, I am. But there's nothing to worry about – Morrigan has seen to that.'

'If there's nothing to worry about then there is no harm in you stepping aside and letting Alistair make the killing blow,' the Antivan countered, eyes flashing darkly.

We stared at each other, neither of us willing to break the stalemate. Eventually Zevran snorted in disgust and walked back to the rest of the group at the gates, who he would be leading to hold Denerim's defences. I gave a sigh that was somewhere between relief and disappointment before starting to head across the courtyard to where Alistair, Morrigan and Shale were waiting. I considered Zevran's accusation, wondering if he was right to question my stubbornness on the issue of who should strike the killing blow. But I knew that if there was any chance of this going wrong, it should be me to do it. It was the logical choice. Alistair was going to be king, and Ferelden needed him. It had to be Alistair that would survive. At least, that was what I told Zevran. The deeper reason was that I was irrefutably in love with my fellow Grey Warden, and I could not stand by and watch him die when there was something I could do to prevent it.

As I approached him, he drew me towards him, kissing me lightly on the lips as Morrigan rolled her eyes. I glanced across the courtyard back to Zevran and the others, but the Antivan had his back to us and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Looking into the templar's trusting, honest, brown eyes, I felt the crushing grip of guilt worm its way around my heart for my dalliance with the assassin the previous night. Of course, that immediately prompted me to imagine what he had been doing with Morrigan at the same time, and suddenly I did not feel so bad. However, I knew that if I survived this day I would have to make my mind up about what I wanted from my life – I couldn't not keep switching between them while I waited on my fastidious heart making a decision for me.

We said our farewells to the various allies that would help the other half of our party guard the city gates, and then headed off towards the archdemon. I managed to pull Morrigan to the side in a bid to talk to her. I wasn't sure how I felt towards the young apostate. In the past couple of months I had grown to rely on her, perhaps even like her. The previous night had evoked conflicting emotions inside me. Gratitude at her offer of the possibility of a happy ending, and anger at the very audacity of said offer.

Her sharp eyes studied me keenly. 'Is there something you wish of me?'

I thought of everything that I wished to say to her. There were so many questions, accusations, insults and thanks running through my head, and I didn't know how to begin to put them into words. All I knew was that she had been there from almost the beginning, and that I was grateful she would be there till the end.

'Thank you,' I said finally. My words were blunt and dispassionate and I wondered if she'd know if I was being genuine or not.

Her yellow eyes seemed surprised, but she merely nodded.

I began to walk away until I heard her voice call from behind me. I turned around patiently.

Her mouth was as tight and thin as ever, but I thought I imagined the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. 'You're welcome.'

* * *

This was it; I had finally come face to face with the archdemon. I was transfixed at the sight of its heavy, scaled wings beating with a dangerous grace as it circled the dark sky above me. Its mottled hide was an array of inky green and purple, so shadowy it was almost black. Fearsome claws clinked in a flash of steel and its eyes held only death and evil. It was huge – bigger than anything I'd ever seen before, its power too mighty to comprehend. I could see the sinews and muscles beneath its leathery scales, indicative of its strength and agility. Though its mouth was closed, I could see sharp fangs protruding from its jaws, painted in red blood and adorned with scraps of flesh from its victims. I could sense the taint inside it – the taint that epitomised the being of all darkspawn and yet only seemed to truly emanate from this creature. It did not notice me at first, but then turned its head slowly to focus one glittering green eye on me. My stomach lurched and a petrifying sense of vulnerability fell over me. It saw me. I could not force my eyes away, even as it swung round in mid-air to sweep towards me, jaws open and roaring a terrifying sound. I could see smoke and embers in its nostrils and it took in a furious breath, ready to open its jaws and spew a searing burst of flame right at me.

I leapt out of the way even as I loaded my bow with a pair of arrows and shot them into the beast's neck as it screamed past. It didn't seem to have any effect on the archdemon – the formidable abomination in its dragon-form brushed off the long, sturdy arrows as if they mere merely still twigs on a tree. I snarled in frustration, angry that I was unable to inflict as much damage on the creature as the others. Alistair was hacking away with his sword, each movement powered by a fluid, smooth grace as he attacked an evaded almost simultaneously. He was a true warrior now – worthy of the title of king. I could not help but feel a tingle of pride as he fought alongside me to see how much the bumbling templar had grown. He seemed almost as strong and statuesque as the giant stone golem beside him. Shale's power was nothing short of extraordinary, and as he hurled rock after rock, slamming his great stony fists at the archdemon, a sudden, radiant feeling of hope came over me. I knew we could win.

'Morrigan!' I yelled, trying to catch the attention of the apostate.

She spun her head towards me, her yellow eyes questioning me as her mouth pulled back in a grimace, leaping out the way of a jet of flame from the dragon's mouth. She danced around the archdemon, as deft and agile as ever, and for a moment I thought she would make a very good elf. Ice and snow shot out of her staff as she attempted to counterbalance the beast's fiery breath.

'These arrows aren't doing much damage! I need some help here!'

She nodded in acknowledgement, raising her staff with a sharp gesture. I heard a crackling from behind me, and a cold breath on my neck. When I next drew my arrows, they were sheathed in ice so cold that it would freeze the black blood in the archdemon's veins. I raced towards the creature, using the bodies of fallen darkspawn to weave over the rubble with lithe ease. My fingertips felt numb from coldness and raw from the pain of loading arrow after arrow into my bow. But I could not stop, not now that we were so close.

I did not know how long we had been fighting, but we were all, with the exception of Shale, beginning to tire. The fatigue and exhaustion of our journey all over Ferelden seemed to be culminating in this final battle, leaving our limbs so heavy that it took an almighty effort just to keep breathing, to keep ourselves upright. And then the archdemon gave such a fearsome cry that it sent shudders racing to my very bones and I stood, as if petrified, unable to move. The huge, dragon-like figure staggered and fell low to the ground, struggling to raise itself back up on its powerful haunches. This was the time. This was our opportunity to strike.

Alistair looked at me, and I shook my head imperceptibly. I could not let him do it. Despite Morrigan's ritual, I knew that if there was even the slightest chance of him dying, I could not take it. I walked over to him, so that I was close against his blood-stained armour. So close that only he could hear my words.

'If I don't make it…I love you. It's always been you.'

For a second, confusion muddled his boyish features before the realisation dawned on him that his sword was missing, in my grasp as I raced towards the heaving frame of the archdemon. It saw my approach, and I looked in its eye and felt as though as my darkest thoughts, all my worst fears, had become true. It was looking into my soul, it would not die, and it would not let itself be killed. Not by me – a mere Dalish elf. How could I expect to defeat such a creature? What was I, compared to the darkness and might of this terrible beast?

_We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit._

Tamlen's voice rang clearly in my mind, and as though he were with me, my courage took on a new strength that I had never before experienced. My hand tightened around the hilt of Alistair's sword, and I let out a feral cry as I quickened my pace, breaking my gaze from the black depths of the archdemon's eye. The ground was slick with blood, and I slid downwards, striking upwards with the sword at the same time and creating a long, bloody gash in the creature's underbelly. It let out a shriek of furious agony, and I leaped out the way as its bulky frame collapsed to the ground around me. Its jaws were still flexing with a deadly determination as I moved round towards its head, but I drew up the last of my strength and raised the sword one last time, bringing it down on the beast's thick neck.

There was a terrifying, horrible cry, and then it was silenced. I wiped the blood from my face, and turned to face my companions, as if to make sure I was still there and not fading away into darkness and death. Morrigan looked at me with something between triumph and self-satisfaction, before her tight mask slipped and betrayed the barest hints of a smile. Shale was as unfathomable as ever, but something told me that if a golem could convey joy, it would look something like he did. And Alistair…Alistair was looking at me in a way that nobody had ever looked at me before. I could not discern all the emotions in his face, and I was certain that mine was as equally confused. I did not have the words to say all the things I wanted, so settled for a light touch on his arm.

'It's over then?' he asked, with the beginnings of a weary, exhausted smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

I pulled him close to me, touching his cheek with my fingertips and looking into his eyes as if for the first time.

'It's over.'


	17. A Long Expected Party

**Author's Note: I know I said this was going to be the last chapter, but I've decided to add a short epilogue too! So you get one more short chapter after this one, to wind things up and explain how it ends...read and enjoy!**

* * *

'Quite the ceremony, hmm?' Zevran observes, slipping an arm around his fellow elf's waist. 'You Fereldens can throw quite a party when you're not under the threat of a Blight.'

She smiles back it him, but it is strained, and he can feel the muscles in her back tighten with tension and anxiety. He tuts to himself, kneading his fingers into her back in an effort to relax her. Her eyes close briefly and she lets out the breath she has been holding, causing Zevran to smile. The Grey Warden had ended the Blight, but could still not be at ease around large, human gatherings. Not that she looks out of place, realises Zevran. She may be tense and on edge, but on the outside she looks every bit the beautiful, deadly heroine. She is wearing a green dress, light and floaty, so soft that it seems to ripple over her skin like water. Her usual tangled, knotted hair hangs in soft curls, with flecks of gold ornamental detail adorning it. She looks simply ravishing – a worthy picture of Ferelden's saviour.

'Have you seen Morrigan?' she asks, eyes darting about the room in a distracted manner. 'I know she vowed to disappear, but I thought she might wait to say goodbye. I wanted to thank her, for…' she bites her lip suddenly. 'For everything.'

'I'm sure she knows that you are grateful,' assures Zevran calmly, wiping away a droplet of blood from her lip with steady fingers. He is no fool – he knows exactly what she wants to thank Morrigan for. But he says nothing, only lets his hands drift from her lips down to her shoulders.

'Yes, I suppose she does,' mumbles the Grey Warden, somewhat dolefully. 'I just wish I'd had a chance to _express_ my gratitude.'

Zevran laughs. 'Are you intent on expressing your gratitude to everybody who helped you in the fight against the darkspawn? If so, I have several good ideas for the ways in which you can thank me.' His hands flit down to her waist, drawing her body close against his. He can feel everything through the thin fabric of her dress, and wonders how much time they have before the banquet begins. She is far too tempting, his Grey Warden.

The Dalish elf laughs and squeezes his arm good-naturedly. 'Well, I hope that not everybody will be wanting the same reward,' she teases, eyes twinkling mischievously. 'There might not be enough of me to go around.'

'Such a shame,' he replies in mock-pity. 'I shall just have to have you to myself. And the sooner, the better, if you wouldn't mind. The coronation ceremony was far too drawn-out and boring. I'm not sure I shall be able to wait until after the feast.'

'Well you shall have to,' she replies, suddenly serious. Then she gives him a smile. 'It's been ages since I've had a decent meal.'

Zevran sighs in reply. 'I suppose I can afford you that, at least.'

'Besides,' she continues, 'Who knows when I'll get another one?'

At this, Zevran's gaze snaps to her face with a fierce intensity, his eyes studying her with interest. 'So you're not planning on sticking around then? I would have thought you would like to stay near.' He hums thoughtfully to himself. 'I would not mind venturing out on the road again. Perhaps a trip to Antiva? I'm sure you would find it quite magnificent.'

'Quite,' she agrees distantly, nodding. Her head is cocked to the side and it as if he is deep in thought, thinking of something too far away for him to comprehend. Then suddenly, she shrugs noncommittally. 'I have not decided yet. There is no rush to leave, anyhow. Let us just enjoy tonight.'

'I fully intend to enjoy tonight, my dear,' he grins in reply. 'It is you, however, that insists on waiting for the feast.'

* * *

Alistair feels happy and contented, for the first time in what seems like forever. His belly is full, also for the first time in what seems like forever. Never before had he eaten such large portions of juicy meat so ferociously – never before had he drunk such sweet wine so desperately. When he asks for second-helpings, a servant is there in a second, offering him more with a parting nod and the uttering of: 'your Majesty.' Alistair almost has to laugh to himself. He, a king! King Alistair of Ferelden! He still cannot believe it. And yet, everything seems to have worked out surprisingly well in spite of all the struggle and fighting they went through. And it is all thanks to one very special Dalish Grey Warden.

She is dancing with Leliana, and despite her earlier protests about wearing a dress, she seems to fill it rather beautifully. Certainly, all of her earlier apprehension seems to have trickled away as she skips around the floor with the red-haired bard in a strange sort of carefree joy. Her eyes are wide and her smile is giddy as the spin around the room in what must be some sort of bizarre Orlesian dance going by the looks they are getting from the other dancing nobles. The song finishes, and the two women hug each other fervently, with flushed cheeks and smiling faces.

A slower melody begins to be plucked out of the strings of a harp – a gentle, stirring sound that grows louder with the hum of accompanying violins. Alistair is suddenly overcome with a foolish impulse – perhaps it is the wine, he tells himself – and before he knows it he is asking his fellow Grey Warden if she would like to dance, please.

She looks surprised, at first, and her cheeks flush an even deeper red that Alistair thinks make her look very pretty indeed, but finally she nods and takes his hand as they step out into the floor amongst gentle applause. Of course, he realises, nobody knows that there is anything going on between them – they just think it is pleasant to see the new king dance with the hero of their land.

'Ow! Alistair, that's my foot!'

'What? Oh sorry, sorry!' He glances down at her apologetically and is glad to see only laughter on her face. 'They never taught us how to dance at the Chantry, funnily enough. I suppose they didn't think we'd need such skills in templar training.'

'It's not so much a skill as simple co-ordination,' she teases, shaking her head. 'Though I suppose that after all the injuries at the hands of the darkspawn, I should be able to handle a little foot-treading.'

Alistair nods in agreement. 'Not that I'd ever accuse you of being a cry-baby. It would be a bit hypocritical of me, wouldn't it?'

She shakes her head. 'You are the bravest, strongest, most honourable shem I have ever met. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Alistair.'

He tries to laugh off her compliment with his usual self-depreciating humour, but cannot help the warm stirring in his heart at the emotion and honesty behind her words. He is tempted to kiss her, and leans forward so that his lips are mere inches from hers before he remembers where they are and that, of course, he is king now and must behave as such. Looking back into her eyes, he notices a flicker of disappointment followed by reluctant understanding. She gives a weak smile and instead tightens her grip around his arm, moving closer towards him.

'Things are going to be different,' she murmurs.

Alistair does not know if it is a statement or a question, but stiffens anyway. They have not discussed his obligation to get married since the night before the archdemon, and he really doesn't want to spoil this wonderful evening with another heartfelt argument.

'I'm not going to shout,' she promises, as if reading his thoughts, 'but I need to do what's for the best. The trouble is, I don't know what is for the best.' She gives a short laugh. 'Funny, isn't it? Life was so much less complicated when we were traipsing all over Ferelden, fighting darkspawn.'

Alistair chuckles with her. 'Tell me about it. I'd rather take on another horde than face my first day of politicking. I'm getting a headache just thinking about it.'

'You'll be fine,' she insists, and she says it with such conviction that for a moment, Alistair almost believes her.

* * *

Zevran is rather drunk, and the wine is making his head dizzy. All around he can see pretty noblewomen, whose drinking seems to have loosened their stiff demeanour as well as their tongues. Really, never since he had been in an Antivan whorehouse has he been propositioned by so many women in one night. He can smell them – a mixture of strong perfume and sweet wine – but his eyes only seek out his Grey Warden. The Dalish elf, however, is the one person he cannot seem to locate in this crowded hall.

He bumps into a red-headed woman, and begins to apologise before he realises that it is Leliana. 'Ah, my dear, beautiful Leliana! Tell me, have you seen our fearless leader?'

'Lost her, have you Zevran?' she replies, stifling a giggle behind her hand. 'No, I have not seen her in a while. She was talking to Alistair earlier, however. Perhaps you should ask him.'

This is the last thing that Zevran wants to do, but all the same he finds himself swaggering over to the newly-crowned king of Ferelden, who looks anything but pleased at the appearance of the former Crow.

'Should you not be finding someone to kill, or something?' snipes the templar sourly.

Zevran allows himself a chuckle. 'Or something, my good friend Alistair. I was just wondering if you had seen your fellow Grey Warden recently. It has been quite some time since I last saw her, and I find myself missing being in the presence of her ravishing beauty.'

Alistair scowls and begins to make a quip of his own before stopping short. 'Wait, she's not with you?'

Zevran rolls his eyes. Honestly, he could swear he'd fought darkspawn that had shown more intelligence than this human. 'Can you see her standing beside me? No, she is not with me. If she was, I'd much rather be trying to charm her into bed than standing here talking to you, I assure you.'

'I've not seen her in half an hour. She told me she was going off to talk to you!' Alistair's voice betrays a note of panic now.

Zevran nods slowly. 'It seems we have both been deceived here,' he replied, trying to keep his voice even and free from his growing dismay.

With a single, worried glance, the templar and the assassin come to a brief mutual understanding and immediately set off to scour the room and the surrounding ground for their missing comrade. They move in a desperate panic, moving as quickly and yet as carefully as they can. Most of the people they attempt to question are drunk, and what sober ones remain have seen no trace of the small Dalish elf. Eventually they come across her faithful Mabari hound, who is whining with a miserable dejection.

'Hey Jaeger, here boy. There's a good dog,' Alistair coos while Zevran rolls his eyes. 'Where's your mistress, huh? Where did she go?'

Jaeger whines pitifully and drops something shiny from his strong jaws. Alistair stoops down to pick it up but Zevran's nimble hand gets there first and snatches the object from the new king's grasp. Holding it up to the moonlight, he sees a glimmer of gold reflect off the surface.

'A clasp from her hair,' he mutters bitterly, his hand tightening around it. He looks down at Jaeger. 'She's gone, hasn't she?'

The war hound gives a feeble, snuffled whimper.

'What are we going to do?' Alistair manages to keep his voice even but his face is torn with a mixture of rage and anguish.

'What can we do?' Zevran shakes his head, grimacing. 'She has made her choice – it is obvious that she wanted neither of us to follow.'

Alistair opens his mouth to argue before thinking better of it and promptly closes it again. The two men look at each other with curious gazes, each wondering if the other knows more than he is letting on. Both fighting for the same prize that is snatched cruelly from their hands at the end of all things. Eventually they settle for an uneasy truce, returning to the hall with piercing feelings of failure and filling their glasses with a generous helping of wine. But the taste is no longer sweet – it as if the grapes have been left to whither and grow sour, bottled in a dark, devious liquid that burns the throat with each sip. The alcohol brings them little comfort. Instead they attempt to wash away the bitter taste of betrayal.


	18. Epilogue: Of Cowardice

It has been a few months now, and still neither of them has managed to find me. I'm sure both of them have come close a couple of times – perhaps they even decided to work together – but nobody knows the forests better than a Dalish elf, and maybe they have finally come to realise this, for I have detected no signs of being followed from some weeks.

I suppose you would find his highly amusing, dear Tamlen. You always did enjoy your irony. The proud Dalish Grey Warden – ender of the Blight, defeater of the archdemon – running away from an Antivan assassin and a bastard king. Some part of me still wonders if I had not always intended for things to end up this way, if I had ever thought things could be made to work. But if I look at myself honestly, I have to admit I did come to regard our ragged bond of companions as my clan. And I would never make the decision to abandon my clan lightly. It was just too hard for me, Tamlen. I could never have made a choice, and even if I had, I could never have stuck to it.

You probably wonder how I managed it – to escape when I had become one of the most well-recognised figures in Ferelden. It was not difficult. Alistair was crowned king and I spent most of the coronation ceremony trying to avoid him and Zevran, at least together. I managed it, for the most part, for it was a cause for great celebration and there was much talking, dancing, and drinking of wine (or dwarf-ale, in Oghren's case, which reminds me of a certain episode that I have been desperately trying to clear from my mind!) I waited until everybody was too busy laughing and celebrating, before slipping out the door. There were many revellers out on the streets, but I had my elvin cloak with me, and you know as well as I do that when a Dalish wishes to become invisible, they do so.

You can only imagine my astonishment then, as I reached the outskirts of the city only to hear my name called from the shadows.

'Going somewhere?' she asked, and I knew immediately from her keen yellow eyes that it was Morrigan. Before I could open my mouth to utter an incredulous reply, however, she pushed on hastily. 'I promised that I would leave Ferelden, that neither you nor Alistair would have to see me again. I am curious, however, as to why you seem to have a similar intention.'

Such a sharp and cunning witch! I watched her eyes gleam with amusement and knew that she was not curious in the slightest – she had been very much aware of what was going on! There is not much else to relate here, Tamlen. We talked for a while as we walked towards the road together, and parted ways on the outskirts of the forest. It seems that she has kept to her promise – in the few months that I have been travelling I have never caught sight of her again, nor have I heard any rumours of apostate behaviour. Sometimes I catch sight of a particularly cunning-looking bear or wolf, and for a second I wonder if…but no, my imagination seems to be more active than usual these days. I sometimes wonder if it is due to the loneliness…

I have never been alone for such a long time. Before, there was always the clan – and of course we were practically inseparable, Tamlen, no matter how much trouble we got ourselves into! And even when you were taken from me, I was given a new clan almost immediately. At first, there was only Alistair and I, but then there was Morrigan, and Leliana, and…I must stop thinking about them. It is too painful to wonder where they are now, what they are doing with their lives.

Ferelden is flourishing under the new king, as I knew it would. And he is doing his very best to help integrate elves into society, if the rumours are correct. I know you will laugh at me for saying so, Tamlen, but not all shemlens are bad. In fact, some are among the most brave and honourable people I have ever met. During the first month of my travels, I was continually evading pockets of the kings guard, ducking deep into the undergrowth whenever I heard the sound of horses in the distance. I was sure that the guard would have no reason to venture so deep into the forest other than to search for something, and I was certain that I was that something. However even when they came close, I was just as part of the surrounding foliage as the bark of the trees, so they never once discovered my whereabouts. For that I am grateful. The only thing worse than not running away, would be running away and then being forced to come back.

As for the other one…the Antivan Crow…I have heard nothing. It is as if he has dropped off the edges of the map. I keep my pointed ears open for any news of a tanned, smooth-talking assassin, but the rumours present no information. I try to reason that he has most likely returned to Antiva, but every so often I think I hear a twig crack behind me, or the bushes rustling off to the side, and I am filled with a sudden paranoia, as if I am hearing him everywhere. Mostly, I tell myself I am being ridiculous. Even if he is following me, surely he would have revealed himself before now. Unless it is some sort of game with him. I could never tell with Zevran – I could never fully read his intentions, so immovable was his mask. But such a game…yes, I think it would amuse him.

I don't know why I am writing to you Tamlen. I know you are dead – this is not some miserable, desperate way to try to bring you back to life for me. But it is a lonely life, this nomadic one, and sometimes at night, by the light of the moon or a small, burning fire, I like to keep myself company with my memories of you. My memories are all I have, now that I have abandoned every friend I have ever had. It sounds so wretched when I say it like that, doesn't it? But the truth is often a horrid and bitter thing.

It is here that I must leave you, Tamlen, for I am due to embark on a rather long journey. Thus far I have remained in Ferelden, as some part of me must wish to remain close to those I love and care for. But it seems as though the Brecilian Forest is getting smaller and smaller, and as I become more familiar with it, I begin to realise that the chances of me being found increase by the day. I have heard rumours of a woman of Morrigan's description heading west over the Frostback Mountains, so I am taking it upon myself to journey that way, to see what I might find. I realise that the chances of the woman being Morrigan are slim, but even if I do not find her, my journey shall take me to the Dales. I may even seek out our old clan.

Whatever I do, I must be careful. Though I am wary of being spotted by someone who may alert Alistair or Zevran, it has also come to my attention that not all the darkspawn have fled back to the Deep Roads. I have come across none so far in the Brecilian Forest, but I am sure my fortune will change when I embark on my journey. There is something that feels amiss, if the rumours of their continued presence are accurate. The archdemon lies dead, but although the darkness and evil has been vanquished, it does not feel extinct. I feel as though a great evil lays dormant, waiting for its chance to rise up and strike again.

Perhaps it is just the darkness and lack of moonshine tonight that is troubling me so. The shadows of gloomy solitude invoke a strange sort of worry over me. I am not quite sure if it is real or in my mind. But if there is something out there, I shall fight it. For the Grey Wardens, for Ferelden, for the Dalish.

For Alistair, and for Zevran.

But most of all, Tamlen, for you.

* * *

**Author's Note: So here we are - it's finally finished! I've very deliberately left it open so that if I feel like writing a sequel then I can pick up the threads of the story fairly easily. For now I'll be taking a break from Dragon Age to focus on my Mass Effect story, The Spectre and the Vigilante. But as far as this one goes, I hope that everybody has enjoyed reading it! If you have any comments, criticism, suggestions, or would just like to say what you thought of the story, then please hit the review button! Thanks for sticking with at and you never know...you might be seeing a continuation at some point in the future!**


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